Page 3 of Enzo's Vow
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 relationshipstatus. 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 orderinganother 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.
