The Wedding Crush

Chapter Sixteen

Avery

By Tuesday, I’m paying the price for chasing goose bumps.

My period showed up yesterday, so I’m not pregnant, just regular allergies, I think. Though, not just a few sneezes here and there. Stuffy nose, congestion, the works. To top off my flaming pile of garbage sinuses, the—heavily dairy-based—Alfredo on the pasta I ordered for Turn-Up Tuesday with my Sister Circle curdled in my stomach. Instead of updates about Seneca’s now-outdated resignation letter and the forearms on Valerie’s Fix-It Felix, I spent most of the night in the restroom, praying to the porcelain gods.

I may have felt like crap the entire time, but I didn’t miss our standing weekly appointment.

So, there’s that…

Another sneeze tickles my nose.

“Nope. Into the elbow.” Monica warns me for the umpteenth time tonight. She’s got too many high-paying Pilates appointments this week to come down with my “random cooties.”

Her face twists in disgust as the sneeze lurches out of me onto the gum-smeared pavement, sending Seneca, Valerie, and Morgan scattering and reaching for their tiny sanitizer bottles.

“And on that note…” Seneca slowly backs away. “Mon, y’all drove together, right?”

Her face lifts with false cheer. “Lucky me.”

I swat her playfully, my face still contorted with the threatening sneeze. After fishing out a restroom paper towel from my pocket, I gently dab at my rubbed-raw nose. “But I still didn’t get the scoop.”

In classic Morgan form, complete with animated facial expressions and wild hand gestures, she gives me the twenty-second recap.

“Felix and his forearms have moved on to Valerie’s bedroom where he’s been laying pipe. The ceremony dances will be the highlight of the wedding, following the actual vows, of course. I’m SUPER excited about the bachelorette party at Bramoso.” She squees. “Then there’s Monica. Some influencer took her Sculpting Pilates class, posted about it, and now she’s booked for months. And in a full-on plot twist, Seneca has not left the bank.” She pulls in a long breath and releases it with an exhausted laugh.

Seneca rolls her eyes playfully. “We’ll see what’s a plot twist when Mike and I dance at your wedding.”

A surge of laughter vibrates over the circle like the wave until it gets back to me, culminating in—NOT the stupid sneeze that’s been hijacking my nose—but a queasy dry heave.

“Okay, so we’ve all got work tomorrow.” Valerie flips up the collar of her jacket to shield her nose and mouth as she hugs me. “Monica, get her home safe, please.”

I try to laugh, but it’s just gross, so I give up.

Morgan shoots me a sympathetic stare, though. “I’ve got late appointments tomorrow. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home? Maybe get you some medicine? Make you some tea?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She tilts her head. “It could be food poisoning…”

As nice as that sounds, lying in bed while someone brings me tea and takes my temperature, I’m not a person who likes inconveniencing others. The very idea that she’ll have to drive me home, wait on me hand and foot, then make it back to her fiancé exhausted and possibly infected…

No. I can’t.

“I’m telling you, it’s just a little cold, and the dairy didn’t agree with me tonight.” I shrug it off. “I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow after I sleep it off.”

She holds my stare for a beat.

Finally, three rapid-release sneezes let loose.

They all bless me in unison.

“Girl, why are you so stubborn?” Monica shakes her head. “It’s okay to let someone else take care of you for a change.”

“First of all, I live with a six-year-old, which is like rooming with a walking germ,” I reason. “I’m used to this.”

Standing the recommended six feet away, Valerie snickers. “Ma’am don’t blame this on that sweet baby. All night, I’ve been admiring the cut of your blouse, thinking you might not be sick if you didn’t have your boobs all propped up and on display in the open air…”

A gasp spills out of me.

“I’ve had this bra for years.” Instinctually, I peer down at my cleavage wondering if they look bigger. Are they bigger?

Why do they look so voluptuous?

That question is still ringing in my head after we’ve hugged, said our see-you-laters, and I’m freezing my butt off in Monica’s passenger seat. She refuses to close the windows. Apparently, viruses can’t survive in well-ventilated, cool spaces. Nowhere to land (i.e., not on her).

As the light of the city sprawling by outside pierces into the car cabin, I can’t stop staring at the full swell of my breasts.

They’re just sitting there.

Not that I don’t love how they’re perched up high, because I do. Honestly, there was a time, pre-Ace, when I would’ve killed for a perky rack. Who wouldn’t want Playboy-worthy mounds?

But now, I’m questioning it.

Do they swell when you get a cold? Does an upset stomach pusheverything up? More importantly, I’m not pregnant, so WHY do they seem so much bigger?

When Monica takes a phone call, I tap out a quick Google search about periods and pregnancy. Immediately, the search results flood my screen with statistics, symptoms, and anomalies about women spotting early, or conceiving twins then miscarrying one, before it concludes in bold letters: periods usually mean you’re not pregnant.

Immediately, relief courses through me.

Phew, mine was late, but now it’s here.

I’m not pregnant. Which, hello? It’s way too early in our relationship to be adding kids, beyond Ace, to our equation.

Except, as I stare aimlessly out the window into my reflection, I can’t deny the tiny tinge of disappointment. What if I’m one of those women who spot early? My flow has been lighter, and it’s already looking like it’s going to be shorter. A baby with Stefano? Giving him a junior would make him so happy. Or would it? What if he doesn’t want a baby with me?

I look down at my breasts again.

Shit.

“What are you doing?” Monica watches me watching my boobs, before she snaps her gaze back to the road, veering into the left lane.

Another sneeze jolts out of me.

My girl is quick to lower the windows another inch, though. She doesn’t even have to tell me to direct my germs into the elbow or slather on sanitizer. I’m on it. Although, the entire time, laughing at her dire expression.

“I’ll grab my Lysol when we get to my house,” I reassure her before circling back to my eighth and ninth world wonders. “They do look great tonight, don’t they?” I shift in my seat, giving her the full display.

“Boobs aside, I think the question we should be addressing is how did you get sick?”

Her eyes have been glued to the road. Now, I feel the weight of her assessing gaze, as accusatory as her tone.

That wasn’t a question. It was a you’re fooling no one, so you might as well tell me everything lead into what she’s been itching to talk about all night. Rather, who she’s been itching to talk about.

I release a certified snort-laugh. “Why don’t you ask what you’re really asking me?”

“Mm-hmm. You’re fooling absolutely no one. Out there roaming the wilderness with the silver fox, that’s how you got sick.”

This time, I don’t even bother hiding my laughter.

I’m breathless and gasping for air, holding my stomach. “You are so wrong for that.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

As if. The second I tell Monica, the Sister Circle group chat will be blowing up on my phone.

“What is wrong with you?” I giggle.

“Shoot, you already admitted y’all were crushing on each other. Hypothetically, I mean.” Monica rolls her eyes, grinning like she’s the freaking Cheshire cat.

“My lips are sealed.”

“Okay, you can pretend you’re not dying to tell us, but hear this…” She presses the button to roll up our windows. I’m guessing noise interference won’t fare well when we’re almost to my house and she wants every word to sink in.

I make a big production, twisting and angling myself to her.

“Girl, you know I live by my Weather app, right?” she reiterates.

“Oh, Lord. I’m dying to hear this.”

“A Saturday night. Two attractive, single adults, ‘allegedly’ curating a wine and catering menu. Chemistry, off the charts,” she editorializes. “I’d be willing to bet you carried yourself there, wearing next to nothing, and y’all were alone in that warm, dim, enclosed space of that winery when the rain started coming down. You and I both know you weren’t thinking about catching a little seasonal cold.”

I drop my face into my hands.

As if underscoring her comment, my phone pings, and I freeze guiltily.

It’s a catch-22.

Monica is watching. If I rush to check the message, she’ll have visual confirmation of just how hard I am, even for a sound bite of Stefano’s voice. From there, it’s a matter of minutes before she draws accurate conclusions about everything that’s happened since Il Sapore.

Now, I could come up with an elaborate excuse, but then I realize I’ve got one built in.

Ace is with Mommy. Maybe he’s already sleepy, which is totally plausible given she falls for his puppy-dog eyes and allows extra snacks and screen time. What kind of mother would I be if I missed a chance to tell him goodnight?

“Oop, close to bedtime!” I say, unnaturally loud. “This is probably Mommy letting me know Ace is off to bed early.”

Monica shoots me a sidelong glance.

As my phone illuminates at the bottom of my purse, I zero in on Stefano’s name with the tiny cactus emoji I assigned to his contact, and my heart warms.

How’s dinner with the circle going?

I’m grinning like a fool.

Quickly, I tap out a response letting him know we’ve had to cut the night short due to my cold.

“Mm-hmm.” Monica smirks. “Because bedtime texts always elicit swoons out of you…”

Sarcasm drips from her tone, and I don’t even have the sense to care because his follow-up text is loading.

Except, those annoying little ellipses keep bouncing the rest of the drive to my house. Through Monica’s suggestive Tell him to come take care of you tonight, and still half an hour after that. So, imagine how embarrassed I feel with my phone glued to my hand, refreshing the message for the umpteenth time, when my doorbell rings, and it’s a tall, super sexy and sweet silver fox holding his version of my Fix-it Kit.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to come all the way over here. I’m fine.”

I’m wedged in my doorway, torn between wishing I’d picked up Ace’s toys and straightened the sofa pillows, and yanking him inside.

Stefano tilts his head, smiling.

“You’re not well, so I’m here to take care of you. You never have to ask me, Avery,” he says as if that’s just an unwritten rule, and not the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.

My heart jackhammers against my ribs as I step aside, opening the door wider for him to enter.

He presses a soft kiss to my cheek on his way inside.

As soon as he reaches the kitchen, he gets to work, unloading the reusable grocery tote.

“All right, we’ve got chicken noodle soup from Bramoso’s, ginger ale, and a little vitamin C. We’ve got to get those immune cells operating on all cylinders again.” He tosses me an adorably boyish wink. “For entertainment, I’ve got my Get Well Soon Movies playlist…”

I climb up on a barstool. “I’m sorry, what?”

He looks at me like he’s offended by my surprise.

“Listen, just because I’m a staunch businessman who values nicely cut suits and a great book, doesn’t mean I’m not a film connoisseur. I know my movies.”

A laugh twitches my lips, but I fan out a hand, giving him the floor.

“Please, enlighten me,” I say.

“Since I suspect you’re only humoring me because you’re under the weather, I’m going to give you five movies to choose from. Then, you’ll be relegated to the bedroom.” Stefano clamps his mouth shut at my hopeful expression. “To rest and recover,” he clarifies.

“Hey, a girl can wish.” I shrug.

We could’ve thrown a pillow over my head to shield him. I’ve heard of kinkier things.

His expression softens with amusement.

“For the record, as much as I’d love to pick up where we left off over the weekend, I’m here to tend to your health needs.” He grins. “We’ll take care of the rest once you’re feeling better.”

Slumping against the counter, I feign disappointment.

“If you say so.”

Stefano rounds the island, and plants himself between my knees. Tenderly, he tips my chin up to meet his stare. Every nerve ending on my body stands at attention as he drags his thumb over my lower lip.

“You’ve got no idea how fucking bad I need you right now,” he says.

Lord.

It’s the word “need” that makes it so sexy, though.

He doesn’t just want me. He needs to be with me, inside me, his lips trailing across my aching skin as we chase the feeling…

Ooh, Lord. Save me.

A shiver trembles down my spine.

“Okay, well, at least we know it’s mutual suffering.”

Stefano presses a petal-soft kiss to my forehead, laughing. “That it is, Pollyanna.” He leans forward again, then pauses inches from my lips. “Oh, I almost forgot, I’ve got one more thing in the bag.”

Stretching across the island, Stefano drags the grocery tote toward us.

That’s when I notice his goofy grin.

“What?” I ask.

“So, I couldn’t spare my prickly cactus. It keeps me warm and safe at night, as one would expect from a plush toy picked out with so much thought, consideration, and care.”

I giggle. “I knew you loved him. He’s so stinking cute.”

Stefano nods. “I’m glad you said that because…” He fishes his hand into the tote, and stalls. “I was able to secure you, an Oopsie Daisy.”

A full-body sneeze spills out of me. Into the elbow, thankfully, and not on this beautiful, big-hearted man.

Thanks, Mon.

“Bless you.”

“Thank you.” I shake away the sneezy haze. “Okay, now an oopsie what?”

Out of the bag, he produces an adorable white daisy flower plush with a friendly, smiling, happy yellow face, and a tiny card affixed to one of her petals.

Now, I’m the one with the goofy grin.

I dart my gaze at him before reading the message. Oopsie Daisy, you feel sick. Hope you feel better soon. Love, Stefano.

Shoot.

One would think I don’t plan elaborate weddings with tear-jerking vows and professions of love for a living.

It’s a fun-sized, punny greeting card for goodness’ sake.

Yet here I am in all my empathic splendor, tearing up at this beautiful man’s sweet gesture and casual use of a four-letter word. Obviously, he doesn’t love me. How could he when less than two months ago we loathed each other? Well, that might’ve been one-sided. At the least, though, we barely tolerated each other.

Now, I’m thinking about him nonstop. I’m finding excuses to call and text. Multiple times daily. The scene of us at the winery reels across my mind at will. He asked me to be his wedding date. That’s got to mean something. Yesterday, I was supposed to be finalizing the venue setup timeline for my client Nichelle’s wedding, and instead, I lost an hour daydreaming, imagining it was my happily-ever-after with Stefano that I was planning. Dammit, I was low-key excited about stopping at the drugstore for a pregnancy test before my period went and ruined it.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s too much, too fast, right?

But now, he’s here with food and gifts, taking care of me, without me ever having had to ask.

“Thank you.” I swallow, focusing on the plush toy. “I know she’ll keep me warm and safe at night, too.”

With our ever-present sexual tension acknowledged and my heart still stuttering in my chest, we fill a tray with ginger ale and bowls, spoons, and saltines for the soup. I assume we’re locked and loaded to be bed-bound, but Stefano’s starts cleaning my house. He’s a tidying hurricane, fluffing pillows, folding my throw blankets, and picking up Ace’s toys, and I don’t know how not to fall harder.

“One thing about kids, it’s a constant cleanup.” I aim for comic relief. Then immediately vacuum the amusement out of the room when I add, “Sure about that package deal?”

Stefano simply smiles. “I should be so lucky.”

Inside I’m swooning, feeling the ache to be more.

When we finally make it to the bed, though, thankfully, we circle back to his soul-healing movie playlist because I’m just a bag of bones and feelings, at this point.

“Think Like a Man,” Stefano says.

I cringe as I settle onto the right side of the bed, adjusting myself under the covers before I grab my bowl off the nightstand.

My face isn’t because the movie is bad.

No, I’m throwing it out, on principle.

“I’m still mad at Taraji for almost letting Morris Chestnut ruin a good thing with Michael Ealy,” I explain. “Next.”

Stefano chuckles. “Okay, O for one. How about Two Can Play That Game?”

“Yes, but I still want to hear the last three options.”

He tips his head to either side, considering.

“All right, this next one is a classic. Might give Morris and Vivica a run for their money… Love Jones.”

I laugh because he says it low and measured like he’s on The $100,000 Pyramid game show, giving me a clue.

“I would, but—”

“But?” The inflection in his voice rises with disbelief. “A but to new love, poetry snaps, and Chicago stepping? Come on!”

“Look, that movie is my jam. But you can’t tell me you’re in the mood for Bill Bellamy ‘philosophizing.’” I raise a challenging eyebrow, daring him to tell me otherwise.

“Nope, the next thing you’re going to tell me you’ve didn’t love Just Wright.”

“Actually, that one is a solid yes, for me.”

A low chuckle vibrates Stefano’s shoulders. “Finally, I knew you couldn’t say no to the queen… Okay, we’re down to our last option.” He pulls in a lungful of air, then dips his chin, gameshow dramatic to say, “Jumping the Broom.”

I feel my face twist.

“Are you serious?” His eyes widen. “Don’t tell me you feel some kind of way about Paula’s chicken.”

A full-body laugh rumbles out of me.

“Leave that girl alone. That was her momma’s recipe. I wouldn’t dare judge a movie based off food prep anyways.”

He throws his hands up in mock surrender.

My mouth will not close. I’m gasping for air at how surprisingly hilarious he is.

“For your information, funny guy, I would’ve been fully on board with it. It’s perfect for our wedding-themed lives right now. But it’s playing at Movie at the Vineyard for Wine-Down Wednesday next week.”

“Oh, yeah?”

I chance a quick glance at him. “I was sorta hoping you’d want to take me on a date… Maybe, a little practice before the wedding?”

Realization braids his eyebrows together, and he’s suddenly a pile of sappy mush.

“Aww.”

He reaches across the bed, intertwining our fingers as he plants a kiss on my lips.

“You’re going to get sick, too,” I warn, even though I suddenly feel like I’m fifteen again, and I’d love nothing more than to kiss for hours.

“And you think that’s going to stop me?” He brushes his mouth over mine again. “Whatever you’ve got, we’ve got.”

We.

He brings our intertwined fingers to his lips.

I bite my lower lip, feeling slightly self-conscious, and strangely nervous about how comfortable it feels sharing laughs, a bed, and now, the cooties with Stefano. “Everyone is going to be at the vineyard movie night, though…”

“You think I’m going to let that stop me from being with you?”

My whole heart on a platter.

“It’s the final wedding party get-together.”

Honestly, I don’t know what response I’m trying to elicit from him by stating this. Part of me realizes we’re building this relationship-like thing aside from the wedding and planning. But there’s another part that feels like we’ve only been together because the wedding forced us to be. What if this all ends when my best friend and Stefano’s brother say I do? What if we’re just living in the moment, and nothing real comes from it?

We must both doze off sometime during the second movie because I wake up to the credits rolling in a haze of nausea.

I fumble my way in the bathroom, and barely get my head to the toilet before I’m emptying my stomach, loudly. So, I shouldn’t be surprised when Stefano appears behind me, holding my hair and rubbing my back.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say, so glamorously into the toilet. “I’m okay. You can go back to bed.”

“Shhh, I want to be here for you,” he says. “Please let me take care of the woman who’s taking care of my heart.”

For a beat, I consider refusing, insisting I’m okay. It’s been so long since I let anyone be here for me. I’m so used to doing everything on my own. Taking care of Ace, solving everyone’s problems, holding everyone up. But who’s taking care of me?

Now, this thoughtful man with his handsome smile is offering, and I want to let him even though I know I’m falling.

It’s too late.

So, I say, “Okay.”