Page 8 of Good as Gold
I’d like to revisit my twenty-two-year-old self and shake her. Fixer-uppers are fine for houses, but not for men.
The procession continues. There’s Officer Benito Rossi, walking down the aisle with the bride’s sister. And next comes Damien, the tallest, thinnest Rossi brother. On his arm is Lark, the bride’s best friend.
My eyes move back one last time to the bride’s sister-in-law, looking ravishing in a pink dress. And on her arm...
My blood suddenly stops circulating. The man accompanying her down the aisle isn’t listed in the program. Nope. This man is a ghost—a specter my mind conjured and brought to life today.
He must be. How else would Julian Matteo Rossi be standing right there, only feet from where I sit. And not the scruffy, twenty-year-old version from my memories, either.
Nope. This model is the fully formed mid-thirties edition, with long hair and ridiculously broad shoulders. He comes equipped with smile lines and the deep tan of a man who spends a lot of time outdoors.
That swagger, though. Now that’s familiar. And so is the flutter in my belly.
Hell.
Before I’m ready, Matteo passes me and I’m treated to a view of his equally illustrious backside. If you think about it, it’s the view he’s shown me way too often—the one I get when he’s left me behind.
I guess I’m still salty about it. And if he knew he was coming to town for this wedding, he could have given me a head’s up.
But—wait—maybe he called Rory instead. If that’s the case, my ex probably gave him an earful about what a bitch I am. How I’d moved all my personal belongings out of our house while Rory was away on a guys’ weekend, and then asked May to serve him with divorce papers the moment he got home.
It was a little cold, I’ll admit. But you don’t reason with Rory. If I’d sat him down for a big talk, he would have ended up stomping around, red-faced and yelling.
After that, the begging would start. And the promises. But I just couldn’t take it anymore.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. It’s bad karma to think about your divorce during someone else’s wedding. Just because I married the wrong man doesn’t mean this happy couple is making the same mistake.
When I open my eyes again, the wedding party is assembled on the dais, and Father Peters asks everyone to rise.
As I stand, I am very careful not to stare at Matteo. Or wonder how long he’s been in town and why he hasn’t called me.
The first lovely strains of the Wedding March echo through the church, and May appears in an ivory wedding dress.
The guests make a happy noise—like a cross between a coo and a sigh. May is beaming as her elderly grandfather takes her arm. The two of them proceed toward the altar. Their progress is slow, but I’ve never seen anyone look so certain in herlife. My friend is almost floating through the church, as if drawn toward her groom by a gravitational pull.
And—whoa—now I’m blinking through tears. Apparently, I’m not entirely dead inside. There must be a little teaspoon of romance left somewhere in my body.
May climbs two carpeted stairs to reach her rightful place beside Alec. She passes her bouquet to her sister, and Alec takes both her hands in his.
My heart shimmies with joy. This unlikely surge of optimism is like a drug that I didn’t even know I needed.
I let out a happy sigh and take my seat again with the rest of the congregation. “Dearly beloved…”
I make it, oh, ten seconds or so into the ceremony before my traitorous eyes wander from Father Peters and right over to Matteo.
Who’s staring back at me.
When our gazes collide, his doesn’t slide away the way I expect it to. If anything, it intensifies. I get lost in it for a long beat. His broody stare is a thing of beauty. The girls at our high school used to giggle about it.
And now it’s directed at me? For a moment all I can do is stare back.
But then I remember I’m still mad at him, and I yank my attention back to the bride and groom.
Matteo has some explaining to do if he thinks he can just swoop into town without even a phone call.
CHAPTER3
MATTEO
