The Wedding Crush

Chapter Six

Stefano

Here’s the wildest thing about life.

Mine has been about learning and climbing, always reaching for the next rung.

I’ve got decades of experience in management and winemaking. I know the vast, fascinating history of my family’s vineyard grounds. From the acres of soil to every vine ribboning its way to the table. I was top of my class in business school. After twelve years of marriage, I knew my ex-wife’s preference for yellow Starbursts. From her yawn/moan alone, I knew when she was up for more than sleep in our bed.

Used to know.

If the answers were in a book—or a podcast or audiobook—I could study and learn the ins and outs, read the details of processes and people.

But no one ever told me, book smarts and lived experience were mutually exclusive.

No one ever said, my story was interactive. That, all it takes is one setback to change the entire trajectory of my life. That on chapter forty-five, there’d be an unsolicited plot twist.

Instead of rebuilding after the storm, and finding my new normal, no I’m not doing that… No, suddenly, I’m spending my lunch, in a ChatVideo waiting room, bracing myself for an introductory shotgun-wedding-planning session with Dante, Morgan, and a woman with the dual superpower to get under my skin and remind me that I’m still a man with fire burning in my loins.

Jesus.

At least, I won’t be alone with her.

Under my desk, my nerves work their way from the soles of my feet up through my bouncing knees.

Rubbing my sweaty hands down my pants legs to steady them, I close my eyes and pull in a long breath through my nose before I release it slowly from my mouth.

“This is no big deal. It’s just like Dante said. Be receptive. Read her vibes. She doesn’t know it’s been a year since you’ve had sex.”

My computer crackles to life, and when my eyes snap open, beside my dark square, there’s a second one with a neon blue border around it, and Avery Ellis’s name in the middle.

“Sorry, I thought I should tell you; you aren’t on mute.”

I flit a glance at the tiny microphone in the lower left corner, notably without the red line crossed through it.

This can’t be happening.

I swallow over the lump in my throat. Fire swarms over my neck and ears, spreading to my cheeks.

Briefly, I consider clicking the Mute button, then quickly decide against it, knowing the change will reflect on my box.

It’s fine, Dante and Morgan will be here any second. I can do this until they get here, I reassure myself.

Then the screen blinks, and there she is, smiling from ear to ear.

For a horribly humiliating beat, I stay unnaturally still, my attention drifting over this version of Avery Ellis displayed before me.

At Mother’s tea, she was dressed in a bold yellow-and-white polka dot dress that suited her sunshine and rainbows personality—reserved for everyone but me, of course. Then at dinner Friday, she was dressed for comfort.

Today, though, it’s not bright orange sweats.

She’s effortlessly, undeniably beautiful.

Composed, in a burgundy blazer and a pale pink blouse. Light blush is dusted over her smooth, contoured golden skin paired with a deep-plum-colored lipstick, and her always penetrating brown gaze feels trained on me. Even her posture commands authority and respect whilst somehow maintaining every ounce of femininity.

Everything about her says, “Look at me, but don’t dare underestimate me.”

I never would.

However, while I’ve got no romantic interest in her based on our maturity and life experience—not to mention the almost decade I’ve got on her—she remains an attractive woman, who might identify my appealing qualities, and how to amplify them with women again.

Be open.

Like she senses me watching her on the screen, she clears her throat now, signaling we need to get on with his meeting.

My pulse sprints.

Where are Dante and Morgan?

Reluctantly, I turn on my camera, forcing a smile and trying to laugh off my embarrassment when I’d love to yank out the cord, and throw my laptop out the window.

“Oh, yeah, no,” I say, getting my lie together. “This woman, Elena. She’s a travel photographer who works in the space a couple doors down from us, here in the Healdsburg office. She left, but she was at my door…”

It’s a flaming-hot mess of an excuse, but it’s the best I can do to save face, knowing she now knows how long it’s been.

“Ah, I see. Of course.” Avery nods but the corners of her mouth twitch. “Well, I’m sorry for the delay. I just got off the phone with Morgan.”

“Let me guess, they’re running late?” I laugh it off, grateful for the subject change.

But then, Avery’s mouth presses into an unbending line.

“Actually, they got a flat tire on the freeway. They’re not going to make it for this meeting.”

Panic flares in my gut.

I nod, masking my concern, and searching for a reason—any reason at all—to postpone this meeting until they can join us.

Honestly, being in a room with Avery Ellis, virtual or not, it feels like trouble. I thought I could do this. Dante made it seem so simple: show up, listen, and take notes on the wedding stuff, yes, but also, on how Avery acts toward me. Read between the lines to the unspoken subtext between us.

It was supposed to be easy.

But now, they’re not coming, and I’m stuck.

No, I can’t do this.

Swallowing, I glance at my phone on the desk beside my laptop. “Maybe, I should check on them. You know, see if they need any help changing the tire. Dante might not remember how to use the—”

“Don’t worry. Roadside assistance is on the way now.”

“Right.”

Out of objections, and at her mercy, I decide shutting up and taking her lead is my best course of action. Speak when spoken to. Listen and take notes.

I suck in a lungful of air.

But just as I reach for the Mute button, Avery tilts her head, stealing my attention.

“I realize this isn’t ideal,” she says. “However, we’ll get through my meeting agenda much faster than anticipated. I’ll run everything we discuss by Morgan and Dante later.”

Faster is better.

“Silver lining,” I say.

Avery starts to speak again, then she seems to reconsider. She lowers her chin briefly. “I always say that.”

It’s whisper-soft. Almost like us having anything in common gives her pause, too.

“Great minds,” I muse.

That’s the ticket. Just keep it short. One-to-two-word responses only.

Again, she stares at me like I’m a Rorschach inkblot, unsure of what she’s looking at.

Whatever it is must be off-putting because a meeting agenda overtakes my screen. As she explains that she’d reconsidered canceling this meeting due to our wedding date time constraints, my attention drifts to the bullet points. To the words “logistics” and “timeline,” before I come to a halt, my attention climbing back to the top.

“Icebreaker?” I ask.

For ten minutes?

All niceties, any hints of attraction, gone, Avery straightens, posture ramrod straight.

“Listen, I know you don’t like me, but I’m a professional.” Her tone takes on an impatient lilt. “Please don’t disagree because your actions say otherwise that I’m some flighty, immature woman who plans flowery weddings, and couldn’t possibly understand your protectiveness following your family’s grief and your uncoupling.”

Her full lips press together, pursing.

“Now, I have a short agenda prepared, and several meetings on my calendar following this one, so if it’s all the same to you…”

“Of course.”

I feel myself disengaging from the conversation when the document on the screen is replaced by a new one with a single world in large, bold black font at its center.

“Now, you mentioned the icebreaker. Since we’ll be working together to bring this wedding to life for our families and businesses, I feel that it’s pertinent for us to find some middle ground. So, I’ve reserved ten minutes for us to work through any lingering grievances that might be in the way of doing so. Here’s how it’s going to go…”

Over the following two minutes, she explains that she’ll set a timer for ten minutes—no more, no less—during which we’ll take turns asking anything on our hearts as fast and as honest as possible to clear our slates. Then, after she reiterates how much she values order and structure, and will protect it for the sake of her best friend and my brother, a clock appears in the top left corner of the screen.

The way she says, “I’ll go first. Ready?” it feels like, I can be a professional for the sake of our loved ones, can you?

I lift my chin and nod.

Avery’s fiery brown eyes narrow comically to slits, and as we stare into each other’s digital boxes, I can’t decide if this is a genius truce strategy or if she’s just laid down some wedding-planning revenge gauntlet.

Then she starts the timer, and fires off the first question.

“You brought up Dante’s marriage proposal no less than three times at dinner Friday night. What bothers you more, the fact that you weren’t in on it? Or that he isn’t taking your advice to prolong the engagement?”

All right, I guess we’re getting right to it.

Game face in place, I reply, “Neither, actually,” hoping my minimal response will still work.

This earns me a serious deadpan, so I figure I’d better elaborate as quickly and succinctly as possible.

“Rushing just feels ill-advised. Especially, for such an important life decision. But since we’re on the subject, did you purposely keep the proposal a secret from me?”

“Yes.”

It’s her entire response.

Albeit simply stated and childish, it’s an honest one.

Avery shrugs, like she, too, is annoyed that my family’s secrets are at the crux of our mutual gripes. However, given the vineyard hoax, she’s right to assume I’d have tried to reason with Dante, so I let the point rest.

Which, now I’m second-guessing.

Her expression tightens as if my silence is a full admission of guilt, and the crime should be sentenced accordingly.

So be it.

I fan out my hand, signaling that it’s her turn.

In the back of my mind, though, I don’t know why I expect her natural progression would be to jump from the proposal to planning. Then again, we’ll be getting to logistics and timeline shortly.

Avery squints like she’s debating her next question before she asks, “So, why Johnny Timmons?”

“Why not Johnny Timmons?” I counter.

“If we answer questions with questions, this won’t work.” Avery stares pointedly.

“Fine.” I trail my finger along my collar, emboldened when, yet again, her gaze follows. Although, I’m still unclear how this helps to clear our slate, I follow her honesty cue. “His podcast was a recommendation from Elena, the travel photographer down the hall. She recently remarried and said her husband—also his second marriage—swore that Timmons had helped lift him out of his rut.”

This part is true.

Avery scratches her scalp, glancing at me sideways.

Google is free, but I’m eager to hear what makes her tick.

“Now, my question,” I say, piggybacking on hers. “What makes him problematic?”

Like she’s rehearsed a rebuttal for just this moment, less than a minute is all it takes for her to list the reasons on her fingers.

“For starters, you might’ve heard about the so-called self-help guru’s book being dropped by his publisher due to sexual misconduct. Beyond making advances on fans and staff, berating abuse victims, unfounded financial wealth-building claims, and general douchebaggery. Need I go on?”

Shit.

I blow out an impressed—and shamed—breath.

“Absolutely, not.” A shaky laugh trembles over me. “Noted. I’ll be sure, going forward, to complete my research before taking random self-help podcast recommendations.” How did I miss even a whiff of this? I shake my head, then realize maybe being preoccupied with family loss, in every sense of the word, could have been a contributing factor.

“Yes, the man is reckless, to say the least, but you can doom-scroll about that later. We’ve got, what…” she glances to her left, I’m guessing at the clock that I’ve been vaguely watching count down “…six and a half minutes, give or take a few seconds. I’m next, so—”

I interrupt her. “Technically, it should be back on me. You asked if you should go on about Timmons. I answered.”

If we had an instant replay of the past few minutes, the questions have been a two-way conversation. But suddenly, I feel like things are shifting in a direction I don’t want to go, so I’m being a stickler.

The vein at Avery’s temple twitches, like she knows this, too, but she’s humoring me.

She drops her gaze briefly before it springs up, a storm raging her eyes. “You’re right,” she bites out between clenched teeth, her focus again flitting to the clock.

“Good girl.”

Avery’s attention snaps to me again as she stutters, “P-Please, ask away then.”

From the instant she introduced this speed icebreaker, a barrage of questions have flooded my mind. Why are you nice to everyone but me? Why a blonde wig? Why event planning? Do you honestly believe we’ll pull off this wedding in two and a half months? What’s your romantic type? But then I settle on the one I’m most eager to learn.

“What is your gripe with me?” I ask.

Avery sits up, reenergized, like I’ve walked into her trap.

“Stefano, I honestly don’t love the way you’ve inserted yourself, your opinions, and your personal baggage into Morgan and Dante’s relationship. I’m concerned you haven’t supported their relationship from the start.”

It’s so simply stated, but the accusation hits hard.

I feel my defenses rising.

Glancing at the time, I zero in on the final minute winding down.

“Is that so?” I bite out.

The muscles at my jaw harden and jut out at the sides.

She’s accusing me of being a narcissist when all I’ve ever done is put my family first. If anything, I’m still putting my brother’s happiness—his future—ahead of mine.

“For me, the disconnect lies in the fact that I suspect given the chance, rather than respect Dante’s feelings and choices, you would’ve steered him away from proposing based on the results of your marriage.”

Carefully, she chooses her words, avoiding technicality questions.

“Now, I won’t comment on your marriage or your divorce.”

“Sure you will.”

A genuine smile quirks at her lips.

“You’re right, in a roundabout way. I think it’s worth noting that your ex has publicly moved on. My point in broaching the subject is that I’m sure you’re not welcoming everyone’s opinions about it.”

Well, it’s my brother and not people looking to gossip, so…

My pulse throbs.

We’re down to seconds.

I listen to her go on about how family is important, but marriage is between two people.

All the while, it’s on the tip of my tongue to shatter the ice completely.

I want to tell her how badly I’d like to back out of this silly dream team rather than spend my days with a woman who believes life is just a series of rainbow cannonballs and butterflies. Since we’re willy-nilly doling out quick, unfounded judgments, I want to strongly encourage her to take her own baseless advice and keep her immature opinions to herself until she knows the hard work required after the vow exchanges and party cleanup.

But then she says, “It’s just a thought.”

A humorless laugh hurls out of me before I mumble under my breath, “It’s interesting you’ve got such strong opinions about marriage…”

Avery’s giggle snaps my attention back to the screen where the timer is counting down the final seconds.

True to the diabolical woman she is, she says, “Well, maybe that’s because you’re not the only one who has been in one,” just as time runs out.

Wait, what?

The timer blares incessantly.

My head spins, and I’m dying to ask more questions but she’s already flipping open a large pink book with fluorescent tabs sticking out of the pages.

She’s married?

No, she said, “has been in one.” Past tense. Even still, she’s been married?

Suddenly, I’m wading through every interaction we’ve shared trying to remember if she ever mentioned a husband or if she was wearing a wedding ring.

Avery gives me no time to catch my bearings or get a glimpse of her left hand. Immediately, she jumps back to her agenda bullet points.

“Usually, I have twelve months to plan an event of his scale, but since this past Saturday marked eleven weeks to the wedding date, we’ve got to work fast and efficient. Divide and conquer.” She taps around her keyboard until a whoosh echoes in her background. “Check your email.”

A few seconds pass before my computer dings loudly.

In my mail folder is a message from Ellis Events with the subject line

12 Month Wedding Checklist and Project Assignments

Without waiting for me to open it, she proceeds, informing me that we’ll treat the months as weeks.

“For instance, this week, we’ll need to check off all the items for 12+ Months, and as many as possible from the 10–11 Months list.”

When I open the message, I’m pleased that she’s assigned lodging, wine, catering, and event venue to me. It feels like we’ve got our bases covered when I the skim the checklist items for the week, and catalogue items like choose a date, select wedding party, budgets, rings, style, venue selection, and assembling a team of wedding pros.

“Now, let’s get down to details,” she says.

Over the next twenty minutes, she moves seamlessly through initial planning logistics—when and how often the dream team will meet, plus project assignments. We’ll join ChatVideo meetings Monday and Thursday afternoons with periodic on-site meetings on Saturdays, as needed, until the September 30th ceremony and reception.

I’m still scanning items like compiling a guest list, browse dresses, and save-the-dates, that all fall under Avery’s projects, when the swoosh zips through the air.

My email dings again.

“I just sent an invite for the Fortemani-Forster Wedding calendar. When you accept, you’ll receive meeting alerts, one day and one hour before our scheduled meetings. This coming Thursday being our first official one.”

Her work done, Avery stops sharing her screen, and it’s us again.

No Dante and Morgan.

No clashing or clock.

Just me staring at her through a screen, both impressed and feeling like a complete ass for assuming I know the first thing about her. What’s worse, I’m not only curious, but I’m also open to learning.