Page 60 of The Wedding Crush

Nor is Morgan.

In fact, they’re not even paying attention. He and Morgan are huddled close, whispering.

Shit.

Surveying Marcello in my periphery, I have a feeling my brothers know something I don’t.

Just then, the door to our private room opens and a line of servers festively file in, setting the food, champagne flutes, and chilled bottles along the center of the table. A server pops the champagne, and suddenly there’s music and the hum of excited chatter, jumpstarting the party. An upbeat, soulful classic buzzes on low while the group picks and grazes from the boards and platters. Me? I’m reading the liveliness of the room, wondering why my brothers’ distracted demeanors don’t match.

“Oh my God, everything looks amazing,” Avery hums.

She twists to chat with the manager beside her, going on and on about how gorgeous the place is and how much she loves the idea of music and good company coupled with great wine and food.

She’ll be talking for five minutes, bare minimum.

It feels like my opening.

Except, as I angle my body toward Marcello, he beats me to the chase. With his attention centered across the table on Mike, he shifts slightly in my direction.

Out of the side of his mouth, he discreetly, quietly asks, “Are you good?”

I almost laugh. He looks like he’s just declared self-imposed celibacy, and he’s asking if I’m all right?

“Yeah, of course. I’m the best man, right?” I snort, tossing him another searching glance. “I ended up parking two blocks away but at least I doubled my step goal.”

This is his chance.

If nothing is wrong, Marcello should relax. He’ll slouch into the bend of his chair, sigh, then pop a cheesy bruschetta bite into his mouth. He’ll pour himself a generous glass of champagne and brush off his worries because that’s what my unaffected thirty-two-year-old brother would do.

But Marcello crinkles his brow.

His posture is ramrod straight as he scrapes a hand over his mouth and slowly drags it down his neck.

Aw, hell.

A toxic combination of curiosity and worry get the best of me, and I’m forced to take the bait.

“Why wouldn’t I be good?” I counter.

I notice Avery’s attention dart between Marcello to me, and I hedge my body toward him, leaning closer.

What’s going on?I mouth.

Almost like he doesn’t want to draw any attention to us, he slightly averts his gaze. In the back of my mind, I’m banking on this being about something low-energy fixable. A girl who rejected him, or Mother still not trusting him to take on clients without Dante’s or my help. He’s been vying for more responsibility since he was born.

Neither would be out of the ordinary.

But then he scans the room, slides his phone off the table and opens Instagram to Carina’s profile. Then he drops his voice a notch.

“Read the caption,” he says.

Then I do.

Like bile, hurt and shame lodge in my throat.

Painstakingly slow, I guide my thumb over a picture of my ex-wife’s hand curved to the mural of faint stretch marks adorning her fleshy stomach.

This is joy.

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