The Wedding Crush

Chapter Two

Stefano

After Avery leaves, I spend another five minutes outside the tent unwinding myself from her Jedi mind tricks.

So, if I’m understanding her correctly, today isn’t about me, nor Mother…on her birthday. No, in a plot twist that frankly, I’m still wrapping my mind around, it’s about one of my brothers who needs me. Which is why, the instant I walk inside, my plan is to pinpoint which brother, then get to the bottom of this elusive reason I’m needed. For now, though, I’m stuck on the Google results for “silver fox.”

An attractive older man with mostly gray or white hair, huh?

A lightness blooms in my chest.

I don’t know about the old part. Although, comparatively speaking, I’m guessing by her best friends’ median ages and the fact that she regularly finds a corner to sit and nurse her glass of wine, Avery is around Dante’s age, give or take. Easily, early to mid-thirties. In which case, I’ve likely got close to a decade on her.

That’s just math.

It’s the attractive part, though, that’s got me standing taller as I run my hand through my hair, draw my shoulders back, let my arms relax, and duck into the tent.

Surprisingly, a sense of calm settles over me when every pair of eyes in the room snaps to me.

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—and touch—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 said is teetering on his tongue, so I clarify, stressing the food. “Are we talking a large or a regular serving of French 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.”

“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 not just wearing 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.

Shit.

My mind graduates to full-blown panic. Is he sick? Is Mom?

Think.

Damn, that’s why she skipped Bermuda for a high tea with friends and family. She’s preparing. This could be the last time I see my mother, and I’m late because I was sitting in the car listening to a mediocre motivational speaker give pointers to the modern man on getting back in the game after divorce.

I’m a horrible, selfish person.

My attention shifts to his shaky hands, his slow, shallow breaths. “Is Mother okay?”

“It’s not that kind of emergency. Everyone in the family is fine,” Dante says like he senses I’m one hop and a skip from going off the deep end.

He knows how tightly I’m holding on to what family we have left.

“Jesus, Dante.” I close my eyes for a beat, shoving aside those unthinkable thoughts. “You can’t make vague comments like that and expect me not to jump to terrible conclusions. Just tell me what the hell is going on.”

Eyes lowered, he squares his shoulders to me.

“I need your support.”

“Anything.”

A few seconds pass as Dante stares at me like he expected pushback. The ease of it all not sitting well with him before he backtracks.

“First, tell me why you’re late,” he counters.

Nice deflection.

I huff out a laugh. “Let’s not do this. Are you going to tell me or keep up this half-hatched guessing game?”

Dante shoots me a sidelong glance that pleads, humor me, but my nerves can’t handle the suspense.

“Out with it, D.”

But then he doubles down.

“Why were you late?”

“Why are you dodging the issue? We’re not standing in the corner of this tent because you were concerned with my whereabouts.”

Thankfully, Marco has my back.

He lifts a challenging eyebrow and taps his watch. “D, do you really want to waste more time?”

“Yeah, tick tock,” I say.

But Dante persists, and I’m not foolish enough to believe he won’t hold out on principle.

“As if everyone doesn’t already know.” I shrug. “Carina posted a picture with her new boy toy.”

Dante and Marco snicker.

“Oh, is that not manly enough for you two?” I shake my head. “Her sidepiece, fitness influencer boyfriend. Is that better?”

Marco presses a fist to his mouth, failing horribly at masking his laugh.

“Whatever.”

Dante’s eyebrows draw together curiously. “Sorry, Stef. So, you’ve been doing what…sulking?”

“In my car, listening to Johnny Timmons.” Mortified, I cover my face with my hand, laughing with these two knuckleheads. “I know, it’s pathetic.”

They’re bent over gasping for air, using each other to hold themselves upright.

“Ha ha. Get it all out.” I chuckle. “I didn’t want to upstage Mother’s big day. I hope this makes you feel better about whatever it is you were going to tell me because I’m leaving—”

Dante yanks me back into their huddle, still laughing, but his expression turns noticeably more pensive as he slips a small velvet box from his interior jacket pocket.

“What is that?” I ask, stupidly, knowing full well, my jeans and Timberlands brother in an impeccably tailored suit is a dead giveaway. “Are you and Morgan…now?”

Panic etches the lines of his face as he nervously darts his gaze past my shoulders. “Lord, keep it down.”

Suddenly, I feel like we’re in a time machine.

He isn’t thirty-nine. He’s nine—a few months from ten—and I’m fifteen, locked in his bedroom in the middle of the night. Tired, tear-stained eyes had peered back at me. He’d waited until the entire house was asleep to ask me how to make a girl like him. My initial annoyance faded quickly when I realized he hadn’t asked Dad or Nono. Not Mother either. Chiara and Marcello were too young, but I was his choice.

Dante had chosen to confide his fears and ask advice from his big brother, who he’d watched like a hawk, emulated down to the tapered fade and spotless sneakers, trusted to guide him.

As the oldest of four, I’ve always set the example for my siblings. First to business school, marriage, home-owner-ship…di-vorce. Now, he’s about to follow in my footsteps down a muddied, heart-breaking path.

“You’re going to ask her at Mother’s birthday celebration?”

“Do you really think she’s going to mind?” Dante counters. “She’s on the phone talking to Morgan daily. She asked me what’s taking so long.”

That I believe.

She’s all about growing her family. To say she was hurt when Carina and I told her about the divorce is putting it lightly. Carina was like a daughter to her, and I’m certain they’ve remained in touch.

“So, why now? What’s the rush?” I ask, coaxing his stare to meet mine. Maybe, I’ll get a glimpse of what this is about. “Is she…”

“Asshole!”

“I was just asking.”

“No, Morgan isn’t pregnant. I love her.” If only that was enough. “I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I want to start a fam—” He breaks off for my sake but the rest of that sentence barrels through my bruised and bandaged heart.

I want to start a family.

I scrub a hand over my face, familiar sorrow shredding my insides.

Marco’s eyes widen, conspiratorially. “Not to insert myself but they haven’t discussed whether they want kids yet…”

Dante tosses him a chastising you’re not helping glance before he turns back to me.

Silence wedges between us.

“Say something,” he prompts.

“How about four months?” I shrug, shaking my head.

He groans. “Say something else.”

“What do you want me to say? It’s June. You and Morgan met in February, and you’re already living together. Now, you’re proposing? I just don’t understand what the rush is,” I reason, wishing I could open his eyes for him, and make him see the glaring danger signs ahead. “You haven’t had any drag-out, knock-down arguments that challenge the very foundation of your relationship. What about finances? You’re living together, but she works in the city. How long before commuting gets old?”

“He’s got a point there,” Marco agrees. “Y’all need to figure that out.”

“Thank you.” Dante sucks his teeth.

But I’m still hoping he’ll listen. “My point is, you’re thirty-nine. You haven’t been trained yet to put things back in the fridge or dishes in the sink. You still leave wet towels on the floor.” I huff out a laugh. “Do you even know you’re not supposed to use her decorative hand towels?”

Marco shakes his head like this is Marriage 101.

“And he thinks he’s ready for marriage.” I pull in a lungful of air. “Yeah, okay. Like I said, it’s too soon.”

“Is it?” Marco chimes in again, seemingly realizing he’s on the wrong side of his friendship.

I shoot him a warning stare, but Marco’s comment feels like the fuel Dante was waiting on.

“Listen, I get that must be hard after Carina but please don’t be that guy right now.” Dante pulls in a long breath through his nose and slowly releases it through his mouth. He tilts his head to me without looking head-on. “I’m telling you I’m in love and about to make the biggest decision of my life.”

“Think, Dante.”

“Jesus, I don’t want to think anymore. I’ve waited my whole life to feel this. My mind is made up.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, annoyed that he won’t listen to reason.

My brother, better than most, knows heartbreak—familial and romantic. We both know. When it comes to love, though, he’s never experienced the kind you can’t walk away from clean. He’s never felt, touched, given so deeply that love overflowed into a tiny soul whose unborn fingers held the key to life, only to watch it slip away.

It’s taken me over a decade to realize Carina’s and my dream should’ve started with us.

“So, tell me again why I’m here if you already made your decision.” My voice hardens.

“I don’t have Dad or Nono. All I have is my stubborn, overly cautious older brother. I need your support,” he says. “You’re here because I want your goddamn blessing, you asshole.” He laughs a defeated laugh.

Deep down, I want to ask why my marriage wasn’t enough of a cautionary tale. How he could watch the years turn me into a shell of my old self, yet he’s volunteering for the same torture.

Doesn’t he get that whirlwind romances are just seeds? Love is a gradual process, not an instant one. You’ve still got to tend to the vines, water and harvest the best grapes. The crushing, pressure, and fermentation, that’s where the real magic happens. When you dare to let them mature, that’s when you really know what you’re working with.

Love means taking your time.

Even still, it doesn’t come with guarantees.

I flash him a tentative smile, though.

Above all, we’re Fortemanis and brothers.

We stand together, always.

“Of course you’ve got my support.”

He tugs me into a hug, thanking me. “I’ll take it,” he says as Marco joins in with a raucous laugh that gains us an audience.

Slowly, we pull apart to the tune of collective applause.

Then, like it was all the fuel he needed, Dante steps back and straightens his tie. “Wish me luck,” he tosses back, goofy grin in place as he rounds the buffet, moving toward the table with onlookers beaming back at him, ready for the show.

In an impressively smooth move, he swipes Marcello’s empty water glass and spoon, halting the party. “First of all, I want to thank everyone for coming out today to celebrate Mom’s sixty-fifth birthday—”

“Darling, hush,” Mother interrupts him, feigning shock. “I don’t know why people keep saying that. I’m sixty-five years young.”

Another wave of laughter falls over the table.

“You don’t look a day over thirty-five, Mom,” Chiara adds, doing a great job of ensuring everyone’s spirits are lifted for what’s next.

“Victoria Fortemani, ladies and gentlemen.” Dante heads off the applause. “Are you enjoying your big day?”

“Immensely, my darling,” she replies, her eyes sparkling the way they always do when she’s the center of attention.

Dante takes his cue, walking alongside the table until he stops behind Morgan. He rests his hands on her shoulders and leans down to kiss her forehead before he resumes his speech.

“Well, that’s exactly what I want to hear because now I’ve got to follow it up with an apology.” He scans the faces of each guest. “You see, part of my birthday gift requires me to hijack your party for selfish reasons…”

Soft gasps pinball around the room as everyone looks on expectantly.

As if on cue, in a coordinated sequence, the faint music stops, Dante turns Morgan’s chair, and tugs her to her feet.

Her hands in his, he swallows, then lowers himself on one knee.

Mother covers her heart with her hand. She’s all shiny eyes over the smile of a proud parent whose family is growing.

My throat constricts.

The tent fills with sighs, swoons, and cheers.

Tears stream down Morgan’s cheeks.

“From the moment I met you, my beautiful un-Valentine, Wonder Woman, I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life. I knew I wanted to be the croissant flakes on your lips.” She laughs through her tears, fueling Dante to go on. “I wanted to talk about wine, life, family, friends, and business with you. And some may think I’m rushing in…”

He jabs thumb toward me, and I chuckle, looking around the table…

Is that?

On the other side of the table, mixed in with the high-backed chairs at a table full of specialty teas, homemade breads, and fruitcakes, I recognize Morgan’s friends.

Avery, I get. She’s an event planner. It makes sense. But why are Seneca, Valerie, and Monica are here? Which strikes me as odd because if this proposal is supposedly spontaneous, why would they be at my mother’s birthday?

Morgan’s friends wouldn’t attend a sixty-five-year-old’s party, unless…

I flit a glance at Avery.

On the table, there’s a small fanny pack with a bulging zipper, a thick pink book, and a long-lens camera perched and pointed in her hands as she captures this moment.

She planned this.

They all knew.

“Why wait when I’ve never been more certain that waking up and falling asleep with you in my arms is the only life I want to live?” Dante asks the room then meets Morgan’s teary-eyed stare. “Marry me, Morgan Elaine Forster. Make me the happiest man on the planet.”

“Yes!”

Dante scoops her up in his arms, twirling her around as the party erupts with joy.

For the second time in an hour, my head spins, sending all the pieces of this puzzle falling into place. This last-minute tea party, the change of travel plans, they were a cover for an engagement party. Everyone knew except for me, including Avery Ellis.

I won’t have you ruin this.

Half of me is ecstatic that my brother has found a love that makes him feel so deeply. The other half, though, wouldn’t put it past Pollyanna to persuade Dante to keep me in the dark. Can’t have the rain blocking the sun, now, could she?

She knows I’d have convinced my brother to wait.

I didn’t go through hell and back just to watch my brother repeat my mistakes.

“Buttering up the silver fox is all in a day’s work, even for a sunshine warrior, huh, Pollyanna?” I say under my breath as we lock eyes across the room.

I match her smile with one of my own then put my thumb and middle finger together, slip them between my lips, and unleash a hail of a whistle.

My brother needs me now more than ever.