Page 39 of Enzo
“I don’t think so. They’re feral and tend to avoid people.”
She flashed me a relieved smile and breathed easier. “Sorry, it’s just that Enzo is allergic, and I’d hate for something so trivial to ruin his wedding day.”
Well, that piqued my interest. “He is?”
“Yeah.”
“Just cats?”
“Yes.”
“Very interesting,” I said.
“What is?” Enzo was at my side again and I stiffened. The dude was constantly lurking around.
“Nothing, darling,” his stepmother answered. “When are you going to share your honeymoon plans?”
“Yeah, when?” I asked, batting my eyes innocently. “Considering it involves me, I have the right to have a say, no?”
“You’ll find out in due time,” Enzo stated, his eyes flashing with a hint of dark amusement.
I signaled to the nearest waiter and lifted a glass of champagne off his tray, then took a sip and held it up in a toast.
“So will you, Enzo Marchetti,” I said, then made my way toward the long white table reserved for the bride and groom. A towering patio heater stood right behind it, blasting heat like its life depended on it.
I scoffed.
Apparently, someone figured the atmosphere between us was so icy it’d take industrial firepower to thaw it.
Enzo followed, taking a seat beside me, and asked, “What do you mean,mia anima?”
I froze, my glass held halfway to my lips, and slid my eyes over to him. “Whatdid you just call me?”
His expression shuttered. “I thought you spoke Italian.”
“I do.” My pulse thundered in my ears. “Why did you call methat?”
Of all the nicknames at his disposal, he chose the one my masked stranger bestowed on me. It meantmy soul, and up until thirty seconds ago, I’d thought it the most romantic thing ever. And here Enzo was, staining it with his tongue and that mouth.
Silverware chimed against glass from a table nearby and put our conversation on hold.
“Toast time,” someone shouted.
Our guests were seated at long tables nestled among lemon trees and winding grapevines. Though the branches were mostly bare after the fall harvest, they still cast a rustic, romantic charm over the setting. Overhead, festoon lights twinkled softly, while candles flickered across the tables, bathing the scene in a warm amber glow. The evening air carried a crisp chill, but thoughtfully placed heaters and cozy woven blankets wrapped us in comfort.
Despite all of this being an arrangement, the scene was all too real: a table set up with champagne glasses waiting for a toast, an oak-paneled dance floor where we were about to have our first dance.
“Welcome to our family,” Enrico Marchetti announced. “May this be a bridge to a new alliance and better years for our families.”
The toast was met with Papà’s steely expression and even steelier words. “Hardly a joyous occasion when my daughter only met Enzo the other day.”
“And whose fault was that?” my husband interjected coolly, his eyes on my father as he took a sip of his champagne.
“She had no business knowing someone like you. Someone your age,” he answered bitterly.
“As if your own wife isn’t a decade younger than you, Luca,” Manuel Marchetti, Enzo’s uncle, deadpanned.
“Age-gap romances all around!” Amadeo snickered. “Right, Aunt Athena? You write about that stuff. It’s popular for a reason, I’m sure.”
