Chapter 23
ROSS
“Ross, I can’t believe you actually went through with shackling that ball and chain on,” Vincent Van Johnson, one of the executives from the company says as I wait for Violet to be ready for our entrance.
Really, he shouldn’t even be out here, but I haven’t found a semi-polite way to tell him to head on into the reception.
“Though she makes my ex-wife look like dog food, so there’s that.
Am I right?” he says, laughing and holding up a palm for a high-five, which I merely raise a brow at.
“Calling her dog food might be why you’re divorced, VJ,” Kaede says, steering Van Johnson away from me and directing him toward the main room of the reception. When he comes back, he’s shaking his head. “Don’t mean to talk ill of your family—”
“Go ahead, I don’t mind.”
“But your dad’s idea to invite the whole company blows chunks,” Kaede finishes. “Devious, but sucky.”
He’s dead right, but right now, I don’t care. I mean, I just had a hell of a wedding, and seeing Violet’s smile is all I really need.
The door to her ‘refreshing’ room opens, and she comes out. I know I just saw her a little bit ago for the ceremony, but now, something’s different.
Now, she’s my wife. And damned if that doesn’t mean something real, I think as my heart swells to bursting just from the sight of her.
“Hi,” I say softly, the smile breaking across my face instantly.
“Hi,” she says back.
Okay, so maybe we’re both in a little bit of shock. But she’s smiling too, so maybe it’s a good kind of shock.
Kaede pats me on the back, grinning. “You two are too cute. I’ll be waiting inside.”
Kaede leaves, and I lean back, marveling at everything that’s happened today. From the moment Violet walked into the church, looking like a total vision of beauty, to the moment our lips touched and we were officially married, I was nothing but a mass of nerves.
But she was so steady and sure, my rock in the eye of the storm. The craziness continues. The main room of the hotel ballroom we’ve booked for the reception sounds like Comic Con is going on, but with her by my side, I don’t mind. I don’t even notice.
I only see her. I only hear her. I only feel her. I just want Violet to be happy.
Because she’s mine.
Okay, I’m being a bit of a caveman, and maybe it’s all fake . . . but the paper in my coat pocket isn’t. Yeah, we still have to go down to the county clerk’s office to file it to make it legal, but in my heart, I know it’s the truth.
“You take my breath away,” I murmur, pulling her close and kissing her. In seconds, we’re entangled with each other, Violet pushed against the doorway as our tongues twist around each other and her body yields to me.
We’re this close to opening the door and making our first dance as man and wife a private affair when there’s a cough and soft laugh behind us.
“Excuse me, big brother, but if you don’t mind .
. . Violet, your cousins would like to sing?
Like now. They’re literally bouncing around, and half the office is watching their boobs jiggle like it’s a peep show about to happen in three . . . two . . . one.”
I press my forehead to Violet’s, catching my breath, and then glance over to see Abi, her arms crossed over her chest, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “What are you smiling about?”
“You two,” she says, her grin growing as she sing-songs. “You know the old adage. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Rossy with the baby carriage.”
“Abigail,” Violet says with a warning in her voice. I rarely hear anyone call my sister by her full name, least of all Violet. She points, directing Abi back into the reception. “We’ll be there in a second.”
Abi turns and leaves, giving Violet and me a moment of peace. “Violet, about that—”
“We can talk all about it on our honeymoon,” Violet says, her eyes promising me so much.
Maybe, just maybe, we are thinking the same thing, and the isolation and privacy of Hawaii will help us get past our own doubts and the unusual start to this marriage.
“For now, point that thing down your leg if you don’t want everyone to comment on the tent you’ve got in your pants.
” She raises her brow and grinds against me slightly, torturing me deliciously.
I make a show of adjusting my cock while Violet watches before offering her my arm, and we head into the ballroom. The applause is overwhelming, especially when partnered with the DJ blaring air horns in some pattern that vaguely reminds me of S-O-S in Morse code.
Holy shit, there are so many people, and while I agree with Kaede that Dad’s invitation of everyone and their brother is sort of a dick move .
. . it has its benefits. This is going to be a party, a celebration of Violet and me, and maybe the start of something greater than either of us had ever dreamed.
On stage, the triplets are ready, and as the DJ throws it over to the orchestra, they kick into their first number.
Maybe they’re trying to have fun, maybe it’s just part of the collaboration, maybe they’re trying to respect the fast-paced public nature of our engagement, but as they launch into a jazzed-up version of the eighties classic Making Love Out of Nothing At All, I feel a little chill down my spine.
Really, girls? Sure, they change the lyrics, and I’ll give them credit for personalizing it, changing lines like “I know just how to fake it, I know just how to lie,” to “I know I can’t keep fakin’ it, I can’t keep up this lie,” in a way to play up our public story that Violet and I have been in love since childhood and only recently came to our senses.
As I spin Violet around the dance floor, I can’t help but think of the original and can only pray that what Estella, Vanessa and Marissa have done to the song will stick with us. I want that happy ending they’re singing the hell out of. I want it desperately, with Violet.
The crowd eats it up, ahhing as I dip Violet and giving the girls thunderous applause as they blow us kisses when they’re done. “Okay, Ross, now that you’ve given us this big stage, we wanted one more before we let the DJ take over. If that’s okay?”
“Only if you give me a liner credit when your album drops!” I toss back, earning a laugh from everyone. Violet laughs along with them, leaning into me as the music starts and then the triplets start singing in Italian.
“Oh, no, I forgot to warn you! It’s the Tarantella!” she says suddenly.
I look at her, confused as my brows jump together. Did she say tarantula? No, that’s not it, but I have no idea what Italian word sounds like tarantula or what it might mean.
But the Russo family is getting up en masse and virtually sprinting for the dance floor, yelling loudly. I have no idea what’s going on and have a split-second fear that I’m about to be thrown over someone’s shoulder and carted out of here for a ritual initiation into the family.
“Just go with it,” Violet calls out to me, but I have no idea what she’s talking about until someone catches my elbow with theirs and spins me. As I start to ask what’s happening, my other elbow is snared and I’m spinning with someone else.
Soon, we have two circles, the men in one and the women in the other.
I’m doing this weird elbow thing that vaguely reminds me of square dancing in elementary school, and then we join hands and march around counterclockwise and then reverse to go clockwise.
Every once in a while, by some cue I can’t discern, we all shuffle to the middle and back out.
It’s a loud, wild celebratory dance.
I look to the other circle and see Violet’s face beaming with happiness, which lifts my spirits even more. As we dance, even apart, I can feel her. She’s a part of me.
The circles surge and become one, and someone pushes me into the center. I have that middle-school fear of being in the spotlight at the school dance and freeze a bit. But Violet hooks her elbow in mine and spins me, and I relax. This I can do.
Her whole family surrounds us, and even some of the people from my side of the aisle get up to join the fun, all encircling us with joy and love and celebration.
The music gets faster and faster, and we spin wildly.
Every once in a while, the whole circle comes in close and I can hear their outbursts of congratulations before they spread back out to move around us once again.
It’s amazing, and all for us.
The triplets hold a long note, and the music stops with sharp freeze, and the whole group cheers and claps.
“Wow,” I say too loudly into Violet’s ear, but she smiles anyway.
“So, that’s the Tarantella, an Italian wedding dance.” Her laughter is bright and bubbly, music even more beautiful to my ears than the triplets’ singing. Even when she snorts, and chokes out, “You should’ve seen your face! What did you think I said?”
I laugh, vowing to never tell her I thought she had seen a tarantula, despite the fact that that’s highly unlikely.
The DJ takes over while Violet and I take our seats, catching our breath and watching everyone have some fun. The DJ’s good, mixing in songs for every age.
A few minutes later, a sultry guitar riff comes through the speakers and Violet smiles and says, “Oh, here we go again.” She’s up and pulling me to the floor when I recognize Carlos Santana’s Maria, Maria.
She starts to sway, and I let her hips guide me as the dance floor fills back up with Italians, Italian-Greeks, Italian-Americans, and just everyone who feels the groove moving their feet and asses.
“I guess everyone caught their breath?” I whisper in her ear. We’re not exactly dirty dancing, but it’s as close as we can get with her in the poof of her wedding dress. Why does there have to be so much fabric?