It lingered between us – thick, charged, humming like static in the air. I could still feel the faint echo of our last encounter, that kiss in Vegas neither of us had meant to happen. It had been heat and impulse and too much honesty in a moment that should’ve stayed business.
Now, sitting here with Matteo again, in my father’s office, it felt like all of it – Hawaii, the laughter, the water, the sunrise,Miami– had been a dream. A blip. Something I had no right to remember as vividly as I did.
“What’s wrong?”
Matteo’s voice startled me.
He always knew. He alwayssawthrough me, and I hated how easily he did it.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t make me ask twice.”
“I just… I never dreamed about my wedding. Never cared.”
His brow lifted, subtle but curious.
I sighed. “But now that it’s actually happening, I realized… It’s not going to be anything close to what I’d want.” I gave a small, helpless shrug. “If I ever cared about that sort of thing.”
His frown deepened, soft lines creasing his forehead. “You can have whatever wedding you want.You know that.”
I laughed under my breath, shaking my head. “There’s no way. The wedding’s next Sunday. That’s one week. Noone can plan something that – at least not in New York. Everyone’s too busy, too booked, too – ”
Before I could finish, Matteo reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a sleek black pen and a paper from my father’s desk. He scribbled something quickly – five short lines of numbers, his handwriting sharp and angled, all confidence and precision.
When he slid the page across the desk toward me, I blinked at it. Five names and their phone numbers. “What’s this?”
“Five people that work for me. Call them, and they’ll make it happen. Flowers, venue, designer, catering – whatever you want. They’ll get it done for you.”
“You’re serious?”
“I don’t waste time on things I’m not serious about.”
The air between us thickened again, that same strange tension winding itself through the room, tugging between us like an invisible thread. I looked at him for a moment – at the clean line of his jaw, the way his shirt stretched over his shoulders, the gold chain peeking faintly at his collarbone – and for the first time since the meeting ended, I forgot to be irritated.
I tilted the piece of paper in my hand, the light from my father’s desk lamp catching the edge. “Won’t that be expensive?”
Matteo just chuckled, that low, rich sound that always seemed to pull at the air between us. He leaned back in his chair, one arm slung casually along the backrest. “Give me more credit than that,princesa.”
His eyes glinted with amusement as he reached into his jacket again, and slid a sleek, matte-black Amex card and placed it on the desk in front of me. The embossed letters of his name shimmered faintly against the lamplight.
M L DI’ABLO
“They already have my info, but just in case.”
I blinked, staring at it. “Matteo, I have my own.”
“I’m not letting you pay for your own wedding. Yoursoon-to-be-husbandshould do at least that much.”
“Soon to befakehusband.”
“We’ll see.”
My pulse skipped. The words landed heavier than I expected, too close to something real. I reached out and slid the card toward me but didn’t pick it up just yet.
“So,” I said after a beat, trying to keep my tone light. “I’ll uh… See you next Sunday then?”
He tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk curving his mouth. “Sure,” he said, voice casual. “Or…” His eyes locked with mine. “You could tell me what you’re doing for the wedding planning, and I’ll go with you.”
