Page 6 of The Wedding Crush

Including the assessing pair attached to one Avery Ellis.

A fresh rush of adrenaline zips through me.

The articles I skimmed referenced the likes of George Clooney and Idris Elba. They aren’t fresh-faced actors with a light sprinkling of silver creeping in. These are bona fide, aged-to-perfection, black-and-gray-haired sex symbols that women go gaga over. They’ve each been named World’s Sexiest Man Alive. The tinged gray scruff and silver waves of these well-groomed men who ooze charisma only makes them sexier.

Curiosity buzzes through me.

Does Avery Ellis think I’m attractive?

Halfway down the table, Marcello releases a booming laugh, stealing my attention. As usual, he’s leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out, hands back behind his head while he’s steering a vibrant discussion.

I’ve got to be honest, I haven’t seen Dante yet, but Marcello looks decidedly unbothered. Not at all like a man desperately in need of his big brother’s support.

Glancing back at Avery, she flashes me a reassuring smile, and I feel my eyebrows drawing together.

While Avery and I have repeatedly clashed, do I hate the ego boost her word choice—andtouch—has given me? Certainly not. Is the fact that the only empty chair at the table being located between her and Mother the reason I’m questioning her so-called brotherly emergency? Damn right.

Something else is at play here.

What game are you playing, Pollyanna?

My chin high, every inch of me puffed up, I train my attention on her, taking easy strides down the length of the table, greeting guests along the way.

Except, when I’m a quarter of the way down the table, Marcello bellows my name, waving me over.

“Stef! You made it, just in time.”

He lowers his chair onto the grass again, slapping my hand before he tugs me down into a full bro hug.

“Had a few things to take care of first but what’s up?” I ask, hoping his question might either give me insight into what I’ve missed or validate my suspicions about Avery hunting me down.

“Bet. That’s just life sometimes. I know you wouldn’t be late if it wasn’t important.” He nods a few times, reassuringly, before he circles back to his query. “Now, I could use your help. I’m trying to see something here.”

Lay it on me.

Marcello looks me directly in the eye as he asks, “How many French fries is it cool for a friend to take before you’re like,nah”—he slices his hand over his throat—“go order your own?”

A wave of laughter rolls over the surrounding guests. Noticeably, including an attractive young woman with angled and textured curls wearing a pale blue dress seated particularly close to Marcello.

I stare at him for a few seconds, wondering if wingman services qualify as “support.”

Darting my gaze to Avery, who’s suspiciously paying me zero attention, I scrub a hand over my face, chuckling before I return my focus to his fresh, stubble-free face.

Here I was thinking, could this be the question that clues me in on the need that’s so important my brother sent Miss Sunshine USA to hunt me down? But no, this is just my charming, attention-seeking youngest brother, living his best life with a captive audience.

As the youngest, he’s always employed unconventional ways of grabbing the spotlight. Spider-infested grape pranks, a “summer of fun” idea box next to the swear jar, creating his own Rosé Cabernet blends at the winery without putting it to a family vote because he claims his ideas are always dismissed. This French fry conundrum is just another example of Marcello finding a way to be seen.

“Yo, I’m dead serious,” he presses me. “Be for real with me, Stef.”

His eyes widen and flicker to the woman beside him, pleading with me not to make him look like a simp in front of her.

“I guess it depends on the size.” I laugh, and almost snort because I know my brother’s gutter-dwelling mind. Almost certainly,that’s what she saidis teetering on his tongue, so I clarify, stressing the food. “Are we talking a large or a regular serving ofFrench fries?”

“Oh, here we go…” Marcello rolls his stark green eyes and groans, audibly annoyed.

“What?” I ask, struggling to comprehend whatever wingman cue I’ve somehow missed.

“Why do you always have to overthink everything? Damn,” he grumbles. “I’m not asking for the numbers guy who manages the finances for a conglomerate of family businesses, so get that out of your head. Just give me ballpark.”

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