Max.
Dimitri.
AndMarco?
It didn’t seem like anyone really wanted to be here, which wasn’t the feeling most wedding ceremonies brought. Max was on his phone doing God knows what, Dimitri was standing there with his head in the clouds, and Marco was standing there with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. He didn’t bother lifting his eyes to find mine.
There was no Jonathan in sight.
Just these three.
The damn musketeers.
I crossed my arms. “Where is he?”
Max looked up. “We’ve had a change of plan.”
A change of plan. Of course. Why not?
“Okay ...” I scanned the deserted stretch of sidewalk behind them, half-expecting Jonathan to appear out of nowhere. “So he’s late too?”
Dimitri shrugged.
Marco still wouldn’t look at me.
A slow prickle worked its way up my spine. Something was off.
“No. He’s not coming.” Max slipped his phone into his pocket. “It’s Marco.”
I blinked. “Marco what?”
“Marco,” Max repeated, as if that explainedeverything.
Suddenly, Igotit. They weren’t waiting for Jonathan.
Therewasno Jonathan.
The man I was supposed to marry wasn’t the safe, polite Federal agent Jonathan who’d disappear quietly once I got my inheritance.
No.
Instead it was Marco, the one man who couldn’t even meet my eye. The man who could barely stand being in the same room with me yet somehow always ended up exactly where I was. The man whose mouth had pressed against mine, whose hands had already left bruises I couldn’t stop touching days after.
Of course it was Marco.
Because apparently, the universe wasn’t done screwing with me yet.
“You’re joking,” I said with a pitiful laugh.
“Let’s go,” Max said quickly. “You’re already late.”
Late. Like this was some dentist appointment I could just stroll into. Like it didn’t completely change my life—or screw it up more.
I always thought if I got married again—and that was amassive“if”—I’d at least know basic things about the guy before the ink dried. Maybe his middle name, his favorite color, if he was secretly a cat person, or if he snored like a train, God forbid. Maybe I’d even know if he ordered pizza with black olives because he was secretly a psychopath or something.
You know, critical details.
But nope.
