A shrill laugh carries down to where we’re standing in the lengthening shadows at the end of the drive. Both of us look back in the direction of the party, and judging by the expression on Roman’s face, he comes to the same realization as me.
“We’d better get back to the party,” he says on a sigh, rubbing a hand over his bearded chin.
“You’re right. I imagine I might be needed to help the drunken guests further embarrass themselves.”
Roman chuckles, grabbing his suit coat off of the fence and giving it a very cursory dust-off. He pulls it back on, and the poor garment screams in pain as it attempts to stretch around his broad shoulders. We set off up the cobbled drive toward the sounds of merriment, walking side by side. I have to hide a smile when Roman tries to put his hands in the pockets of his slacks, and discovers they are too tight to accommodate them with his thighs. I think I may owe his tailor a thank-you card.
“So…dinner tomorrow?” he asks carefully, as we get close enough to the villa to pick out individual voices.
“Tomorrow,” I agree.
“How will I find you?”
“I will come to you. Where are you staying?”
“Oh, uhm.” Shifting to the side in an effort to make freeing his cellphone from his pants easier, Roman frowns as he taps through a few things. Instead of making an attempt to pronounce the Italian, he holds the phone out to me so I can read the booking confirmation. I nod.
“I know it. I will find you.”
He looks relieved at that, and more than a little pleased. I watch as he shifts uncomfortably, rotating his shoulder and tugging at the collar of his shirt.
“Do you mind if I choose the restaurant?” I ask. “Perhaps something casual?”
“Please,” he agrees. “Yes. This wedding fills my quota for wearing dress clothes for at least the next five years. Maybe more. Also, I’m pretty sure I bought the wrong size.”
“Mm,” I hum, glancing down and not bothering to hide my casual perusal. “It looks like the perfect size to me.”
He scratches a hand over his short beard again, as though wanting to cover up his cheeks and hide the pink. One would think I, with my fair skin, would be the one having trouble with blushing. It’s an endearing trait to find in someone who looks like him—big and strong and masculine.
“Roman! Come dance with me!”
I take a step backward as the bride herself yanks her dress up to her thighs, and comes down the stairs toward us at a pace that shouldn’t be possible in the shoes she’s wearing. She’s glowing, cheeks flushed with heat and a smile wide enough to show off her dental work. I take another step back, thinking I might quietly escape while her attention is on Roman. The help isn’t meant to bother the guests, and certainly not the bride.
She reaches Roman and loops her arm through his, locking him in place. Probably wise, judging by his expression. He’d likely rather run for the hills than dance with her in front of this crowd. Before I can fully retreat, she turns to me, eyes sparkling in the artificial glow of the lights strung above.
“Hi! I’m Olivia.” She holds her hand out to shake mine, keeping Roman pressed to her side with the other.
“Niilo,” I reply. “And congratulations.”
She beams. “Thank you.”
“Niilo is Finnish,” Roman puts in, before adding a small geography lesson, “From Finland, which is in Northern Europe, near Sweden. And Russia.”
Olivia looks amused as she pats his arm. Roman looks embarrassed enough to never open his mouth and speak again.
“Well, that’s interesting,” she says kindly. “What sort of wedding traditions do you have in Finland?”
“There are sometimes games,” I admit. “The guests might steal the bride, and the groom has to perform tasks to get her back.”
Olivia drops her head back and laughs, throaty and loud, the way someone entirely comfortable with themself would laugh.
“Well, shoot. Looks like I’ve blown my one and only wedding—nobody is going to try and steal me,” she says, pouting. “Come on, you. No more hiding. I was promised one dance and I mean to get it. Nice to meet you, Niilo, I hope you’re having a good night.”
She tugs Roman’s arm. He sends a somewhat pitiful look my way, but allows himself to be led. I mouthtomorrowat him and he brightens, sharing another small smile before he’s spirited away.
I stand at the base of the stairs, watching the back of him as he walks away. Skirting the edge of the party, I slide back behind one of the bars and smooth a hand down the front of my vest. For the first time since the wedding started, my smile is genuine.
CHAPTER 3
