“I’m Steff, I’ll be serving you both today,” says the attendant, saving me from what would likely have been an awkward attempt at conversation with this Italian seductress. “What can I get you to drink, Mr. O’Rourke?”
“Whiskey. Neat.” I need something to take the edge off.
“And for you, Mrs. O’Rourke?”
The girl startles at the sound of her new name. I find myself slightly rattled too. She’s my goddamnwife.TheMrs. O’Rourke, until death do us part.
“Mrs. O’Rourke?” Steff prompts when she doesn’t respond.
“I’ll have a vodka martini, please, and make it dry.”
“Coming right up.”
Left alone again, I can sense the Italian beauty’s eyes on me but not see them. For no rational reason, that irritates the fuck out of me.
“Take off your veil,” I demand. “The wedding’s over.”
There’s a long pause, then she unexpectedly snarks, “I thought you didn’t want to look at my face.”
“I never said that.”
“No, you just put my veil back in place instead of lifting it off. What am I supposed to assume by that?”
I grind my teeth. That gag sounds like a good idea right about now. Don Lorenzo told me his daughter would be quiet, meek, and obedient. That’s not the vibe I’m getting from her. Apparently he’s a fucking liar.
“Take it off.” My tone’s chilly. “Now.”
She huffs. Actuallyhuffsat me, like I’m the one being difficult. But she does flip back her veil, revealing an angular face, dark red hair, and blue-grey eyes. Her chin has a stubborn tilt to it, her full lips pursed with annoyance. From her features alone, I’d guess she was Irish instead of full-blooded Italian, until I peer closer and find that Mediterranean sensuality peeking through. As well as that aggravating Italian temperament.
“Your parents didn’t send a bag with your things, so there’s nothing for you to change into until we reach Key Largo.” I’m not sure why I’m telling her this, except in an attempt to ease the tension between us.
She casually nods, as if she already knew that. I’m not sure why she didn’t pack herself a bag. She must have known we’d be leaving right from the church. Not that it matters, I’ll buy her whatever she needs once we get there.
Actually, why wait? I can use the distraction to pass the time.
“Elena, what size clothing do you wear?”
She visibly flinches, her expression tense for a moment before her irritated mask slides back into place. I search her face, trying to decipher her thoughts. What just happened there? Did she not realize I knew her name? Or is it something else? Immediately, I’m suspicious.
She sits up straighter before answering. “I’m a six, or a small, on the bottom, but prefer a medium on the top.”
I grunt, taking notes on my phone. “Small underwear. What size bra?”
“Thirty-four C.” Her cheeks flush a distracting shade of rosy pink.
I clear my throat. “Shoes?”
“Eight.”
“Colors?”
“Earth-tones.”
I glance at her again. “Can you be more specific?”
“You know, I really prefer to shop for myself. If you give me the details of where we’re staying, I can?—”
“No. You’re too late. You didn’t bother to pack a bag for yourself, so this is nowmyresponsibility. I’m going to make sure you have something other than a wedding dress to wear for a week.”
