Page 70 of The Wedding Crush

My brother’s eyebrows crinkle and he shakes his head. “Space cadet. Let’s go.”

Shoot, get your head in the game, Stefano.

I scratch my temple, still dazed as I push to my feet and follow them back toward the changing rooms for our tuxedo fittings.

“No, I was just thinking about, uh…”Avery’s raspy, musical laugh, taunting my ears. Her breath on my skin, her fingers in my hair, the heady feeling of her tight body pinned beneath me.

Shit.

Dante tosses back an impatient glance. “What was that?”

I should spare him the lies.

I’m doing a terrible job of selling them to a guy who knows me inside and out. I’m a person who says what I mean, and with conviction. I don’t stutter. For damn sure, I don’t space out in front of room full of guys who witnessed me slink back into the Champagne Sip looking like I got bodied.

They know.

I know they know, but Avery and I agreed to keep it under wraps.

If nothing else, I’m a man whomayhave screwed up the best thing I’ve got going, worrying what our hookup meant going forward, but I keep my word.

“Right, I was saying, we could really elevate this look with matching socks and pocket squares.”

Up ahead, Jameson cackles. “Tell me your style is dated without telling me your style is dated.” He shoots me a chastising glance over his shoulder. “D, your brother is going to have us looking corny as hell.”

Mike and Everett choose nonviolence, giving zero input. Both are married, and probably remember there’s always one knucklehead groomsmen who thinks weddings are hookup opportunities masked as fashion shows.

Dante snickers. “Could be a nice personal touch…”

The sales associate smirks as he passes us our tuxes and directs us to our assigned changing room.

“What about suspenders, Stef?” Jameson calls out from behind the curtain.

My brother, steadies my arm, shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t hurt him,” I say. “Not too bad, anyway.”

Dante chuckles.

But after Everett and Mike enter their rooms, my brother pulls me out to the main lobby. In a hushed tone, he asks, “What’s really going on with you?”

“What do you mean?”

He tilts his head. “Really? You’ve been zoned out since you arrived, and now you’re letting Jameson get under your skin over socks and suspenders? Come on, be for real with me, Stef. Something’s on your mind.”

I swallow, debating how to go about this without breaking Avery’s trust.

I’ve triednotto think about her.

There’s only so many balance sheets to juggle and miles to run on a treadmill when Avery is in my inbox, on my phone, and in my thoughts. I can’t stop thinking about her. That story behind her wig hit me harder than playing with her son, for Chrissakes. Even her mother—though, I suspect she knew what we’d been up to—she made me feel comfortable and welcome, no questions asked. It only made me love Avery’s and my dynamic more.

Until I freaked out.

Dante must know I’m conflicted because he adds, “Hypothetically speaking. If you can’t tell me exactly what’s going on, then tell me in broad strokes.”

Nodding, I rub my hand over my face.

This could work.

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