Chapter 10
KARINA
It’s impossible to focus on the details of your wedding when you can’t stop thinking about a man who isn’t the groom.
Leticia, the wedding planner, keeps politely redirecting me from my mental wanderings into Marco’s bed and back to the outstanding items on her checklist, like whether I want linen or silk paper for the invitations.
And here I thought paper was only made from trees.
I do my best to feign indecision to cover for the fact that I’m barely paying attention, but my mother keeps interjecting whenever Leticia tries to help me.
“Both the cream and the ivory are classic, traditional choices,” she says kindly.
I faintly register her words, but I’m caught up in the memory of Marco’s mouth on my—
“Karina!” my mother snaps. “Cream or ivory? These invitations need to go out in forty-eight hours.”
My eyes go wide. “Sorry, what?”
Both women sigh, one with a light laugh and the other with the utmost irritation. One guess which is which.
“Either is fine, Mother,” I say. “People just throw them away anyway.”
Barely glancing at the samples Leticia laid on the table, I use my fork to pick at the lettuce on my grilled chicken “sandwich.” My mother booked a private room at one of the most exclusive Michelin-starred restaurants in Napa for the three of us, and pre-ordered our meals so we wouldn’t have to pause the wedding planning.
Since I’m apparently on a diet, I get to eat the most low-cal item on the menu.
The chicken is fine, but it’s smothered in a grainy mustard sauce, and she requested no bun.
Instead, it’s wrapped with bitter organic leafy greens that taste like they’ve just been pulled from the dirt.
My sides are grilled chard and golden beets. Shudder.
Luckily, I was able to sneak in an order of truffle fries while my mother was in the restroom, and I’m enjoying those quite a lot.
She, of course, hasn’t touched a single crumb on her perfectly arranged plate of mouthwatering crab cakes, grilled avocado, and apple slaw, but Leticia seems to be enjoying her seafood tostada. Maybe she’ll let me have a bite if my mom leaves the table again.
I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed my mother eat more than a bite or two of anything in my life. It’s like she’s survived all this time on wine and air.
Leticia has the long table set up with samples of everything from napkins to glassware, reception banquet menus, playlists for the DJ, various candied beads for decorating the cake.
There are two thick books of flower arrangements and décor; lights and centerpieces and tulle for decorating chairs and hanging from the rafters.
The choices are overwhelming and the more Leticia talks, the worse the pressure in my head grows.
No part of me wants to do this. Not now.
Not ever.
My wedding isn’t supposed to go this way, with everything out of my control and forced upon me. I don’t love my fiancé. I don’t want this life.
Until I met Marco, I didn’t realize how truly important that was to me.
Love isn’t a pillar in my family. My parents respect and tolerate each other, but if one of them died, the other wouldn’t be broken up over it.
As for my uncle, he only loves money and control—things that can’t reciprocate.
The only models of healthy relationships that I’ve had any experience with are in books or on television.
I knew I’d get married one day, and that it would likely be a union similar to my parents’.
Nothing more than a business deal. Transactional.
Unemotional. Inevitable. But then I was forced into an engagement with Pietro, and the reality of my powerless position hit me like a freight train.
It opened my eyes to the part of me that wants more. So much more.
Even still, I resolved to go through with it. After all, I was groomed for this. Ever since the engagement, my father and uncle have impressed repeatedly upon me the importance of marrying Pietro for the family, and I had every intention of following through. But then…
But then Marco touched me at the fundraiser gala. He gave me a poem. He took me to the moon on our picnic.
My fiancé will be a terrible husband, but my secret lover is showing me what’s possible.
A tingle blazes between my legs as I mentally replay that tryst on the picnic blanket. It can’t be over between us. Not yet. Pietro will never be able to give me that.
“This is a very nice one-hundred-twenty-pound cotton cardstock. And I have the perfect printer to make your invitations stunning on this paper.”
Leticia slides two paper samples in front of me.
“We could always do a vellum overlay if you like.” She pulls out another sample page covered with gleaming letters in various colors. “And we can emboss in your wedding colors, of course. You’ve chosen those at least, right?”
She pauses as if I’m supposed to fill in the blanks. Wedding colors? I have no earthly idea. Aren’t they usually just black and white?
“Uh, we haven’t decided on colors yet.” I don’t even know what colors Pietro likes.
Leticia’s eyes widen. “Oh.”
“Don’t be silly,” my mother interjects. “Peach and white with gold accents.”
Leticia makes a surprised sound. We’re shocking the poor woman left and right.
Peach? Has my mother never noticed my coloring before?
If you want me to give the impression of walking death, go ahead and subject me to a pastel.
I’m pale and mousy and only a handful of colors look decent on me, none of which come from that spectrum of the color wheel.
She’s obviously just trying to relive the glory of her own wedding, which, no thank you.
“Or maybe not peach?” I say hesitantly. “It doesn’t look great with my skin tone.”
My mother frowns.
“What about cream and rose gold?” Leticia jumps in with forced cheerfulness. “Rose gold is universally flattering, Karina. I promise your bridesmaids will love it, too.”
Bridesmaids? I don’t have any of those. Though I’m sure my family will provide them. Distant cousins and second cousins and in-laws I’ve rarely met, maybe a great aunt or two.
My mother spears her with a glare. “My daughter had her chance to decide. Her head is in the clouds, obviously. She’ll go with peach. And white. And gold accents.”
Her thin lips press into a line as her gaze dares me to argue. Which I don’t.
I know Pietro is going to hate those colors, though.
I might take some pleasure out of that fact, except of course I’ll get all the blame.
If he was here, I’m sure he’d want to stick with all black and white.
He’s brawny and as hardcore as they come.
I’ve only ever seen him wear black or gray, with platinum cuff links, never straying from his color scheme unless he’s in his racing leathers.
Maybe the peach will be enough to scare him away and he’ll abandon me at the altar.
“Well then, peach, white, and gold it is,” Leticia says, forcing cheer into her voice. “Let’s figure out how to coordinate the invitations with the wedding program, and then we’ll choose a matching color scheme for the table settings as well.”
Leticia dives into the book of décor while I eat a few more fries and make awkward eye contact with my mother. When the waiter stops by, she has him refill her wineglass. He offers me more wine, then realizes my glass is still full and leaves.
“Here we are,” Leticia crows, turning the sample book toward my mother and me.
I force myself to listen as she goes through everything, but I can’t force my heart to be into it.
The more she speaks, the more excited she gets.
This is a woman who loves her job. But the meeting that I figured would take an hour is now pushing three, and I’m more than ready to get out of here, so I start making choices without giving them any real consideration or thought.
This fabric for the tablecloths, that crystal for the flower vases.
This placates my mother at least, and she finally relaxes enough to sit back and sip her wine, simply observing.
Even as I’m approving the patterns for the silverware and the napkin colors, my mind strays to what kind of wedding Marco would like.
He seems like the type who’d prefer clean, contemporary details without a lot of fuss, but with a touch of something personal.
Neutral table settings with subtle centerpieces in his racing colors or something.
Maybe a black and white wedding with just a pop of color here and there, cobalt blue or fire engine red.
How strange that he’s pulled me in so completely that I’m more at ease planning his wedding than my own.
If only this was his wedding I was planning. Our wedding. Is it crazy to think that?
I don’t know. I have zero experience with men, with relationships…
with what makes me feel good. But with Marco, it’s like none of that matters.
I know without a single doubt that I want him, that we have a real connection.
Not just the physical stuff either. There’s this…
spark when we’re together. We just click. We fit.
And as for the physical stuff? No man has ever touched me like that.
Well, no man has touched me at all. That’s not to say I don’t understand how orgasms work.
I mean, most any girl can do that herself with enough practice and patience.
But intimate touching, the slow wanderings of hands and lips, tasting and losing yourself in the scent of warm skin and arousal…
I shiver and squeeze my thighs together under the table, the tension almost unbearable.
Marco…I need him.
How can I ever share a bed with Pietro after this? A shudder passes through me when I consider what kind of lover my fiancé will be. Rough and selfish come to mind. My face flushes as a wave of heat goes over me. I feel like I’m suffocating.