Chapter 1 #2
I bet she itched to get this off her chest. A muscle over my left brow tensed.
“And you don’t think Matthew makes me happy?”
She shrugged, her smile wobbly. “ Well … he kind of pushed you into this rushed wedding. You did say you wanted to wait another year.”
No wonder she doubted my decision. “I know what I said, but Matthew’s right; wait for what? We want the same things in life. We want to settle down and start a family.” I shrugged, peering at the floor. “We want to start a future… together.”
Willow inhaled a sharp breath through her nose, the sound dismissive. “Remember when you were fourteen, and you’d returned from visiting your father? All you talked about for the entire summer was the cute Italian boy who worked at your dad’s florist.”
A boy I hadn’t thought about in years? I recoiled as if zapped with electric wire.
“Willow, I was in high school. Are you suggesting I find my teenage crush?” And why on earth would I chase some fleeting feeling?
I wanted solid foundation, a home built on shared values.
Matthew and I made sense. Raised in the faith, a pastor’s son, he understood my promise to God to wait—a promise we both valued.
Unlike my previous boyfriend, Dan, and his constant nagging, Matthew hadn’t pressured me at all during our year of dating.
As for love … I trusted it would bloom over time.
“No, not at all.” Willow waved a flippant hand. “All I’m saying is—you couldn’t shut up about him taking you bungee jumping, and how he gave you your first kiss at that panoramic lookout. You were smitten. And now…”
And now…I had a fiancé who took me out to church events and coffee dates.
We were too boring…for Willow, anyway. My last conversation with Matthew tweaked my lips into a small smile.
He’d called before his flight, his voice laced with apology for the delay.
Even with his parents’ misplaced passports, he offered to call the venue, reconfirm bookings…
anything to ease my stress. If only Willow would stop worrying.
If only she would see what I saw in Matthew.
A great guy. “Willow, I love you and appreciate you looking out for me, but I know what I’m doing. ”
She combed all ten fingers through her blonde tresses and released a shaky sigh. “Okay. You’re right, I’m sorry. Come here.”
Willow pulled me into a hug, then leaned back, her flash of teeth matching the spark in her eye. “Let’s go enjoy those cocktails.”
“I’ll meet you out there. I want to touch up my lipstick first.” I’m doing the right thing . I uncapped the lipstick and leaned closer to the mirror. I know I am .
Done smacking my lips together, I scanned my reflection one last time, running my hands down the rough cotton of the corset waist A-line dress. A gift from my bridesmaids. The hem stopped at my knees, and the modest neckline created the perfect outfit for a hot summer’s night in Messina.
I exited the bathroom. Clinks of cutlery against glassware echoed in the distance as I rounded the long corridor and smacked into a solid wall.
No, not a wall. A strong hand snagged my elbow to help steady me on my feet.
No longer across the room, but up close and personal enough to inhale his cologne; sweet and spicy, with undertones of earthy incense.
I’d assessed his emerald eyes at a distance, but up close, they shone with an unexpected magnificence. Golden, amberish hints warmed the green, making them almost… hypnotic. “Sorry,” I muttered and skirted him, my voice weak, breathless.
He blocked my escape path. “Enjoying your last night of freedom?” The deep, masculine rumble of his voice vibrated low in my stomach. His accent was difficult to place—Italian layered under something—American?
My pulse rapped a frantic beat at the base of my throat. “Yeah… I guess.”
Those magnetic depths consumed me as predicted.
Unapologetic too, journeying down my neck as if entitled.
Then his features hardened, the gravity of his expression far too grave for an accidental bump between strangers.
He leaned closer, severing the space between us, the sudden warmth strangling my breath.
“Join me for a drink.”
Why did his question sound more like a demand?
Get a load of this guy! The clear sign on my head blazoned my relationship status.
I poked the hairpiece and wished I’d flicked the small switch, so the ‘ Bride-to-Be ’ title blinded him.
“I’m getting married.” Stupid to elaborate, since the self-explanatory veil stated the obvious.
His lips quirked in a playful smile. A wicked glint sparked in his eyes. “And I must say…” He paused, letting his gaze linger a beat too long. “I’m looking forward to our wedding.”
Our wedding? Seriously? This guy clearly had one too many vinos.
I was no stranger to these kinds of men here in Sicily, the typical charismatic Italian with their bold statements and cheesy lines.
I almost rolled my eyes. My table in sight, I darted toward my small party, but a firm grip on my elbow prevented a further step.
Breath hitching, I glanced over my shoulder.
The man found the situation comical and braved the nerve to grin. He nodded toward the tiara.
“Congratulations.” He paused, a faint flicker in his eyes. “Weddings... they bring people together, don’t they? Sometimes in unexpected ways.”
Without a thank you, I hurried back to my table and rubbed at the flesh, at the tingles erupting from where he’d grabbed.
His stare bore into my skin, a palpable force I couldn’t shake, like a physical touch; invasive and unsettling.
I forced myself to sit, to meet Harper’s concerned gaze, to pretend everything was normal.
But even as I smiled and nodded, my heated skin confirmed his gaze lingered on me, a searing brand.
Matthew had never looked at me like that.
He was respectful, like a warm blanket—safe, predictable.
His gaze never pierced, never held an unnerving hunger.
But this stranger made my skin prickle with something I couldn’t name, something I craved experiencing with my very own fiancé.
The strange man flagged down a passing server. Leaning in, he spoke in hushed tones, his hand discreetly passing an envelope with a big wad of folded bills sticking out. No doubt ordering another bottle of the most expensive red. But why an envelope? Weird.
The young man’s eyes widened, darting nervously between Stranger and the kitchen, before nodding curtly. He stuffed the money into his pocket, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow, and hurried away.
What was that about, some kind of tip? Surely the kid didn’t deserve that much. I huffed a breath, forcing my gaze on my table. Who cared how much Stranger wanted to tip the staff here? His money was none of my business.
Light banter continued throughout the meal.
While wringing my hands and evoking the event in the corridor, I smiled or laughed when the moment called for a reaction, half-tuned to the conversation.
My earlier bump-in with Stranger left me on edge, as if impending doom lurked around the corner.
Or perhaps the classic melody playing in the background fueled these absurd thoughts.
Shaking off the bad vibe, I focused on my party.
Not about to allow some handsome Italian to spoil my night.
Midway through our chat, Willow bolted for the bathroom.
I jumped from my seat, but Harper waved for me to stay and followed her.
This close to midnight, the piazza grew empty, and most customers thanked the staff on their way out of the restaurant.
Except for Stranger and his buddies in the corner, we remained the sole customers.
I sipped my icy water, trying to hold back my snicker. “Then I said, this is Sicily. No such thing as on time. We’ll be lucky if a bus shows up at all.”
Papa roared with laughter at my retelling of our sightseeing adventures, while Harper helped return a staggering Willow to her chair. Poor girl, her blonde hair sat in tangles, her pale face tinged green.
My father leaned close to my ear. “You told me Aussie girls could handle their drinks.”
Willow proved the exception.
One waiter carrying fancy cocktails approached our group, the same young boy who received the generous tip. He bit his lip, his hands shaking as he slid the tray onto the table. First day on the job?
Papa furrowed his brow and spoke to the waiter in rapid Italian.
The jittery server twisted his fingers. His smile wavered. “On the house. Complimentary drinks for the bride-to-be.”
My father, never missing an opportunity to score a sweet deal, smacked his knee in a playful manner. “ Bravo!”
“Oh, pretty.” Willow reached for a cocktail.
“Not so fast, Lolo.” Harper snatched Willow’s wrist and rolled her eyes at her childish pout. “Gem, I’m taking Willow back to the hotel. She’s had enough for one night.”
To leave my father when we’d spent the shortest time together? My heart sank. We’d landed here a few days ago, but all the last-minute wedding prep and showing my friends the sights hindered us from spending quality time together. I shot Papa an apologetic smile and rose to my feet.
Harper lugged Willow’s arm over her neck and assisted the woman upright. “No, stay with your dad. This is your night. Look, there’s a taxi right there.” She pointed to the row of taxis across the deserted road. “You stay. I’ll manage Willow.”
I bit my lip, eyeing the taxi, then my father, before settling back down. “Thank you, Harper. Call me if you need help.”
Papa patted my wrist as my two bridesmaids stumbled away. “You have wonderful friends, a little wild, but I see they love you.” He waggled his brows at the tray on the table. “Let’s not waste these. The waiter called them Full Moon Martinis.”
I clutched his drink, preventing him from taking a sip. “Is alcohol a good idea with your heart medicine?” Thank God my father survived the heart attack from a few years back, but the scare prompted him to reevaluate his lifestyle habits.
He set down the glass, the clink echoing a little too loudly.
His fingers fidgeted with the cocktail skewer of blackberries as he met my gaze, a practiced reassurance in his eyes—a gesture I remembered from the many times he promised everything was all right after one of his and mum’s fights.
All those chats for nothing, since their continuous disagreements ended in them getting divorced.
Matthew would never argue like that, never let things escalate. He was calm, steady, safe.
“Gemma, I’m fine. I promise I’m looking after myself.”
“No more midnight pasta dishes?” I waved a finger in his face.
He trapped my finger, cupping my hand in his own. “No, I’ve cut the carbs.”
“Good.” I patted his hand with my free one.
He nodded to the drinks. “Tonight is a celebrazione , so let’s toast.”
My hand was slow to lift from my lap, but I took the glass. The large milky ice sphere indeed resembled a moon.
“To you and Matthew.” He elevated his drink in salute. “May you be very happy.”
“ Cin cin!” Clinking our glasses, we sipped our drinks, smudging the delicate sugary-crystal rim.
Strong? What an understatement. The mango flavored vodka scorched my throat, only doused by the sweetness of the sugar coating the glass.
Goodness, the waiter had to be new. He had no idea how to make a cocktail.
Papa continued to tell me more about his diet and exercise regime.
Either the drink or the long day of sightseeing relaxed me to the point of yawning.
The air grew hotter, and I grabbed a cardboard coaster to fan my neck.
Had they turned the heat on in this place?
In summer? I blinked back the sudden blur in my vision.
Papa swayed in his seat, his eyes as heavy as mine felt.
“You okay, Papa?” My speech slurred, robotic to my own ears.
He flopped against the table, a muffled thud echoed throughout the restaurant upon impact.
My heart galloped like a wild mare, each beat threatening to burst from my chest. “ Help, someone call for help .” Why did I sound so weak?
And why was no one rushing to my father’s aid?
The young waiter paced in front of the bar and wiped the sweat from his brow.
Stranger reclined in his seat, unbothered by the spectacle, as though watching paint dry, but a flicker of something akin to satisfaction crossed his face before it vanished.
The classical tunes mounted in crescendo, cellos and violins weeping their tragic melody.
Too weak to fight the pressure, I slumped forward.
Stranger’s mouth curved into a smirk as my world blackened.