Page 7 of The Wedding Crush

“Okay, let’s see…” I nod, giving his silly question proper consideration, on the off chance he’s responsible for the Sun Signal glowing across that sky that led Avery skipping to the rescue.

The woman, who I’m certain is the barely legal eighteen-year-old daughter of one of Mother’s friends leans in, her knee brushing against Marcello’s.

“I said, maybe ten…” She giggles and shrugs, flashing my brother a lip-biting smile.

Marcello spreads his legs wide, arms loose, assuming a relaxed pose that shamelessly draws attention to his family jewels.

She’s a child. Not a good look, bro.

“For the sake of time and your overly analytical skills…” Marcello prefaces, playing to her. “Let’s say it’s large fries with one dipping sauce, no ketchup or salt packets, and no additional fries at the bottom of the bag.”

Mentally, I take all these factors into account, estimating there’s about fifty to ninety fries in a large, then I take ten percent off the top. Even further, taking that five to nine, I average again.

“Seven, max.”

Marcello snaps his fingers five times in quick succession before he slaps the table victoriously. “What did I tell you? If you want ten fries, you’re going to have to buy your own.”

They fall into lively bickering and laughter as he whispers suggestively, “Unless, we’re on a date…”

Okay, then.

Evidently, my job here is done.

I continue down the table toward Mother. As I’m walking though, Avery lifts her chin, her gold-flecked brown eyes widened with urgency. I’ve got no clue what she’s trying to communicate, my supportive services all but forgotten until she presses her fingers to her lips, pointing her forefinger to the left.

My gaze flits across the room, snagging on movement near the buffet tables.

Looking like he might pull his hair out if he didn’t shave his to baby-butt bald, is Dante, in deep conversation with his best friend Marco.

Flashing Avery a reassuring glance, I change course, slowly,carefully, veering in their direction.

From the short distance, anyone would assume they were just two guys in suits, celebrating and shooting the shit. They’re simply catching each other up on life’s happenings.

But I know better.

With every step closer, I scrutinize the way they’re huddled together, their closed-off postures as they whisper in hushed tones, going back and forth in quick succession. That’s not all, though. It’s almost imperceptible but the thing that’s most telling is Dante’s shaky hands.

Something indeed is happening.

Whatever it is, it isn’t good.

Once they’re in earshot, I clear my throat, announcing myself. “How are the English tea sandwiches?” I ask.

Their eyes flicker to the tiered tower in front of them like they’ve only just now registered they’re standing beside the buffet.

“Stef,damn. You made it.” Dante drags his hands over his scalp and wordlessly heaves a relieved sigh.

“I did.”

But then it hits me that my brother is wearing a suit. And notjustwearing a suit. It fits properly, which means it’s been tailored. There’s a tie and an ironed button-down to pair with matching black leather belt and Oxfords, and…Is his beard scruff gone?

He turns, further magnifying my suspicions when he finally meets my stare and whispers, “We don’t have much time and I need to talk to you.”

I ease in closer, my throat constricting as I join their huddle, replaying Avery’s advice.

Smile, because your brother needs you.

Marco drags his hand over his mouth, down his chin until he pinches the skin at his throat.

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