The Wedding Crush

Chapter Ten

Avery

The following Saturday afternoon, I pull up to Stefano’s ultra-chic high-rise building on the edge of Lower Nob Hill. A swift and friendly valet takes the keys from my hands, and a bright-eyed doorman directs me to a grand marble concierge desk, where I’m currently shaking like a leaf behind a grocery delivery guy loaded up with bags hanging from his arms.

I pull in a long breath, strangely nervous to see Stefano.

As I slowly release it, the sleek, raven-haired concierge in a pristine red suit waves him over.

“Hello, again, friend.” She smiles and hovers her fingers over the keyboard. “Twice in one day, huh? Who’ve we got this time?”

“Let’s see, it’s got to be…” The guy tugs around one of the bags to scan the sticker affixed to the side. Surprise etches the lines of his forehead. “Ah, shoot. It’s Fortemani.”

I’ve got no idea why a grocery delivery would elicit this level of shock from them, but it does.

The woman’s confused gaze darts briefly to his strained arms as he hinges his weight onto the desk. Her brows braided together, she turns, picking up the phone and resting it on her ear before she presses a few buttons.

“Hello, Mr. Fortemani, we’ve got a gentleman here in the lobby with a grocery pickup for you… Uh-huh, yes. I’ll send him right up.”

When she ends the call, the man quickly thanks her, going on about the size of the pickup this go-around. Then he hikes up the bags again and shrugs with a see you later, and he walks away.

But now I’ve got questions, too.

Is it simply that he rarely uses grocery delivery services?

The guy recognized his name, though. So, maybe, it’s the contents of his order. But what strange things could he have purchased for a casual Dream Team night to pick music and choreograph a dance? Worse yet—and this is really reaching, based solely on out-of-context reactions from two people I don’t know—but what if his plans the night of the dress shopping appointment were with a woman? Not just any woman. What if she’s Carina, and Stefano’s giving their marriage another shot?

The way Stefano clammed up when I told him Victoria wants to invite Carina to the wedding—the way he hasn’t brought it up since—my early arrival could easily be cutting into their dinner date.

Shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot.

I turn on my heel toward the smiling doorman just as the woman swivels forward, glancing directly at me.

“I can help you here,” she says.

I swallow and turn back.

“Hi…yes, I’m here to see him, too. Mr. Fortemani,” I say. “I’m a little early so I can come back—”

“Your name, miss?”

“Uh, Avery Fortemani,” I say, slapping a hand over my face, cringing at my error. “Sorry, I’m Avery Ellis, here to see Stefano Fortemani.”

The woman flashes me a wide, knowing smile that, if I’m reading this correctly, says, if you didn’t want it to be a date then why did you try on five outfits? Why are you sweating and shaking? Why did you awkwardly sit through multiple ChatVideos with him and shamelessly google his address to prepare for “dance practice?” And for the love of God, WHY are you slapping this barely divorced man’s last name onto yours, and standing there with a personalized gift, if you aren’t shamelessly hoping for a date, hmm?

Obviously, her smile is nosy.

And correct.

I’ve been a nervous wreck because I thought I felt a shift between us. One day, we were at each other’s throats. Then I caught him with Ace, and we cleared the slate. I went and overshared about Justin. Now, instead of funny jokes and verbal jabs about his starched suits and my planner bible, I’ve started looking forward to seeing him, digitally or otherwise.

Suddenly, I’m noticing how nice his smile is and how large his hands are. Which, okay… They’re big, so of course, my mind pours right down the drain to the gutter, imagining what else might be as big on him.

One week of niceties.

That’s all it took, and now I’m naively standing here holding a bag full of personalized gifts.

I’ve got a dang prickly pear cactus with a tiny card that says, “Big Prick Energy. Thanks for inviting me over.”

Ugh. I thought it was cute.

But now, it just feels like overkill.

“It’s no problem for me to come back in an hour.”

I force a small smile as she glances back to her screen and taps over the keys. “Ah, here you are. You’re right, he isn’t expecting you for an hour, but I’m sure it’ll be a pleasant surprise.”

For whom?

The nosy smile stretches wide on her red lips.

She fans out her hand across the lobby to the elevator bank where the grocery guy is waiting, too.

After I thank her, I rush over, just as the doors open, and the man nearly drops one of the bags.

“Here, let me help, you,” I say, hooking my tote over my shoulder, and leaning down to take one armful of bags from him.

As we step inside the spacious mirrored elevator, he releases a long breath.

“Thank you, sis. I thought this one was a goner.” An appreciative smile twists the lines of his rich brown skin. “I tell you, this guy must be having a fancy party, all the stuff he bought.”

Heat creeps up from my neck to my cheeks.

The entire way up to the twelfth floor and down the elegantly finished hallway to Stefano’s door, I’m silently praying I’m not crashing his second-chance romance. As the guy, who turns out to be super talkative and nice, knocks on the door, I hold my breath until I’m light-headed.

Then the door swings open on the picture of a certified bachelor with baseball blaring from the television.

A gasp escapes my lips.

Suddenly, my nerves and conclusion hopping make perfect sense. I’ve been to his family functions. His mother is like my new best friend. I planned his brother’s secret proposal to my best friend, and we’ve sat through several ChatVideos together now. But other than a couple glimpses of him listening to freaking Johnny Timmons in his car and talking to Ace, I’ve never witnessed Stefano Fortemani without his armor.

Not in any real way, at least.

But this version…

This shields-down, in-his-element, easy black T-shirt and jeans silver fox in his ultra-chic den?

Good Godthis is what a grown-up crush feels like.

Forget teenage dreams and bad boys. I want a sexy-ass full-grown man who owns real estate, a vineyard, and state-of-the-art, wildly expensive vacuum cleaners. I want to wind down with wine and cheese with the backdrop of sweeping city views in all directions. I want to memorize the sharp angles and lines of his obscenely beautiful face, run my hand through his messy salt-and-pepper curls while I gaze into his depthless dark eyes. For all that’s good and holy in this world, I just want this man who makes a costume change feel like foreplay.

“Avery?”

Shoot, I’m staring.

He presses his hands down his jeans, hanging loosely, appetizingly low around his strong hips.

My lungs constrict and my heart stutters, but I force myself to focus on his soft gaze.

“I carried some bags,” I say, but it lands with as much conviction as Baby carrying a watermelon before Johnny Castle banned her from corners.

Speaking of corners, the edges of his mouth lift.

He doesn’t even bother hiding his smile.

What am I going to do though? I sound like a complete idiot.

A laugh trickles pathetically out me as Stefano steps back to allow us inside to drop off the bags.

As he tips the delivery guy and walks him to the door, I briefly take in his space.

Heaped mahogany bookshelves and stately furniture fuse a warm palette with fine finishes and cool blues and grays. Natural light filters through floor-to-ceiling windows onto gray oak floors and two-tone area rugs. It’s modern-age luxury, single living meets timeless comfort and escape.

It’s him.

The door slams shut behind me.

“So, you carried bags?” He raises an amused eyebrow.

“Look, I did my good deed for the day. Can you say the same?”

He brushes his gaze down over my black Vans and leggings, before he registers the oversized gray Dream Team shirt I made.

“Is that—”

“A custom shirt I designed special for this occasion?” I nod, eagerly reaching into my purse. “And did I make a matching one for you? Why yes. Yes, I did.”

“Oh, well in that case.” Stefano chuckles.

“Morgan and I were at the jeweler picking out Dante’s ring on Tuesday. She did a great job, by the way. And anyway, I got to thinking about dancing today, and I wasn’t sure you owned anything other than suits, so…”

He barks out a deep, throaty laugh.

Taking his Dream Team shirt by the collar, I flounce it out, then flip it over. “And that’s not all…” I say, tickled as he reads the bold black writing sprawled across the back.

I don’t always wear suits but when I…wait…yes Ido.

He snickers.

“Well, this didn’t hold up.”

“Don’t feel bad,” I say, angling my back to him so he can read mine.

I don’t always haul around a giant pink planner bible but when I…wait…yes, Ido.

Stefano tucks his lips between his teeth and nods.

I laugh.

“Okay, I don’t actually have it with me either, but the thought was there.” I playfully swat his arm. “Look, if you’re not nice to me as a first-time guest, I’m not going to give you the other gift I brought for you.”

He covers his heart with his hand. “So there really is more.”

“And not just a dope wedding-themed playlist…”

On the TV someone hits a home run, and the commentator yells, “Let’s go! This ain’t Denny’s but that’s a GRAND SLAM!”

The crowd goes wild with cheers.

We stare a beat too long.

Thankfully, Stefano breaks eye contact first. Every inch of my body is tingling as I follow him away from the foyer, bickering about the benefits of a deejay versus the orchestra as we enter the spacious chef’s kitchen where we double-team unloading the grocery bags. Which, funny enough, includes vegetable and deli platters, a party sub, two king-size Snickers, and about five drink options.

“I didn’t know what you might be hungry for,” he says.

All at once, I realize this large order isn’t his norm.

My heart rams against my ribs.

“You ordered all of this for me?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Figured the least I could do is feed you if you’re coming here with music, moves, and custom Dream Team shirts.”

The moment feels light as a rock.

“All right, then.” I peel off the plastic film on the veggie platter, dip a celery stick in the ranch dressing, and stick it in my mouth. “Grab your dancing shoes, point me to the Bluetooth handle for your speaker, and let’s pick a song.”

Twenty minutes zip by with us feasting on ranch-drenched vegetables and sipping Prosecco as he vetoes ninety percent of my playlist.

“What about Dinah Washington? A little ‘September in the Rain’ or ‘Time of My Life’ from Dirty Dancing?” he suggests randomly.

I about fall out, laughing.

“Sir, we’re not about to be foxtrotting and tangoing into this wedding ceremony.” I go back to searching through my music library. “At this point, I just need to make sure you can dance?”

I try—and immediately fail—not to look at his lips.

“Are you questioning my moves?”

He has the nerve to look adorably offended.

Then he’s rounding the kitchen island and tugging me up off my barstool. He guides me with his large, firm hand at the small of my back until we’re in the middle of the living room for all of Major League Baseball to see us. In a total GQ move, he taps and swipes through his phone, silencing the television, before a dramatic succession of drums, violins, and bandoneons fill the air.

My right hand is gripped in his left as he glides his other lower. With seamless movements, he guides me all over his condo.

I feel like a rag doll.

A hot-and-bothered one whose anatomically correct parts are currently throbbing with need.

Lord, give me the strength.

Suddenly, we’re back in the open.

In a quick and firm move, he twirls me out, and snaps me back until my body is molded to his. My leg is hooked over his hip, my chin nestled in the crook of his neck, our chests pressed flush and heaving against each other.

If he calls me good girl, I’m a goner.

As we slowly pull back, the look in his eyes dares me to be ashamed of my apparent newfound silver-fox fetish.

Why I thought this man could possibly have no moves is beyond me. I was sorely mistaken, and whatever that was… I want to do it again, faster and horizontal.

That’s where my mind is, descending to gutter levels when Stefano withdraws. Not all the way, just enough so that our faces are a breath apart and we’re staring achingly into each other’s hungry eyes.

I should pull away.

I should be the level-headed one here, considering we’re both healing from the worst kind of loss, and anything between us would only be hormones and flesh. But Stefano’s arm feels so good banded protectively around my waist. And I haven’t been held by a man, felt so precious in his grasp in…far too long.

So, when Stefano leans in and slants his mouth over mine, waiting for me to reciprocate, I do. I eagerly part my lips, giving him access to deepen the kiss. To taste my moans and feel how much my body craves him.

Like a switch flip, we go from torturously holding back to a mess of needy hands in gorgeous silver-lined curls—his, not mine—and breathless whimpers.

Good God, every inch of him invades my senses. He smells so good. Sweet and clean. Expensive. And his body is so warm and solid. So hard.

He’s all man.

It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed properly, and I don’t want it to end.

God, please don’t let this end.

But as soon as my prayer up in the air, as I lower my hands to Stefano’s waist and slip them under the hem of his shirt, dragging my nails subliminally over his back, telling him I want more, that I need more than kissing, he steps back. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, and I see the apology in his dark, penetrating brown eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

A war wages in my head between what the hell just happened and please, please let’s go back to doing it.

My entire body throbs, aches for him, and he’s apologizing.

“Okayyy,” I say, stepping back and swiping my phone off the kitchen island. “I think it’s safe to say the tango is off the table.”

Stefano drags a hand over his face.

I’m humiliated with regret swarming inside me, yet he’s visibly relieved.

Averting my gaze, my focus snags.

It’s while I’m staring at the tan line on his finger, utterly confused why he stopped the kiss that my mind mercifully pivots.

“That’s it!” The song barges through my hazy embarrassment and lightbulbs in my mind. “Jagged Edge. ‘Let’s Get Married’ with Rev Run!”

Despite the awkwardness, Stefano nods and smiles. “It’s perfect.”

“Right?! It’s upbeat, wedding-themed, danceable,” I list, getting excited about our—hopefully limited touching—routine, rather than my libido raging wildly against me.

I’ve been physically rejected and I’m horny as hell, but we’ve got a song!

Silver linings.

With the music pumping from his word-class entertainment center, I scarf down a sandwich, polish off my champagne, and we put together some semblance of four eight-counts that, with practice, should gain us the crown.

Eventually, I gather my things to leave, tucking the tiny cactus in the crook of his couch to discover later. Stefano walks me to the door, and with a terribly awkward side hug, I step out into the hall.

Only when I hear the door snick closed, I can’t whip my phone out fast enough.

SISTER CIRCLE CHAT

Avery

911!!!

The entire drive home, I bring my girls up to speed on the Stefano saga—minus the kiss because I’m the only one allowed to freak out, right now. Deep down, the second he pulled back, I sensed his mental combat, so I’m only half relieved when Monica contends that our emotions are running high and that I shouldn’t draw any conclusions just yet. So, I’m going to take my cue from him, we all agree.

Real simple.

It’s not like my emotions—and now, my libido—are involved or anything.