Joel’s younger sister now resided in Portland. Lucy hadn’t thought about the possibility of him being here as well, or she sure as heck wouldn’t have come to her cousin’s wedding.
Joel nodded. “Gambo invited my family. Unfortunately, I was the only one able to attend. My sister and parents weren’t able to be here.”
Her Zio Gambo, whose real name was Ricardo (she didn’t know where the Gambo nickname came from, only that no one ever called him Ricardo), had been a contracted employee of Morgan Construction for decades. When he’d lived in California, his company had done the flooring for Morgan builds. He’d raised his family on Morgan wages, same as her own father. But five years ago, at aged 55, Gambo suffered a heart attack that nearly killed him. So he sold his flooring business, packed up his wife and daughter and moved them to Portland, where hethought life might be less stressful. Given that he lost 25 pounds, gave up smoking, and started baking, he hadn’t been wrong.
Now his only child had gotten married. Of course he’d invited the Morgans. They werefamigliato him and all the Barones. Between Gambo’s flooring and Luciano’s cabinetry, they were basically one big family business. And that’s how they’d been raised. Family.
Joel’s sharp eyes zeroed in on hers, telling her what she needed to know. He’d come to the wedding, hoping he’d see her. He reached out his hand. “Dance with me.”
Lucy stared at his palm, then his face, then his palm again. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”
“Why not? I remember days when you let me dance with you in our kitchen.”
Lucy remembered that, too. And that was part of the problem. The memories.
“That was long ago. We aren’t—that’s not us anymore.” She didn’t want to reflect back to when, for a brief moment in time, her life had been amazing. Perfect. The four months she’d spent with Joel, under the radar of everyone else’s knowledge, had been bliss.
He brushed his fingers against hers, tangling them together, and an old, dormant burner flared to life inside her.
“You’re still my wife,” he said quietly, stepping closer. His body heat rolled over her, sealing them together in a bubble of warmth she only ever experienced with him.
“I haven’t been your wife for four years,” she whispered, her voice catching on a breath as he lifted her other hand to his shoulder, positioning them in a dancer’s embrace. Her gaze clung to his movements.
His presence was mesmerizing, his rich, spicy scentenveloping. His voice was an echo of her heart. Everything about him drew her in.
“Our marriage license says differently.”
“That doesn’t count anymore.”
“Did you sign the divorce papers?” he murmured.
Lucy’s gaze snapped up to meet his. “What divorce papers?” She’d never filed for a divorce, and as far as she knew, he hadn’t either. Had he? Her heart started hammering in her chest.
“Exactly.” His eyes burned into hers. Intense, triumphant. Heart breaking. “Which means you’re still my wife, Mrs. Morgan.”
Joel’s movements mimicked Nico’s from a few moments ago, but Lucy’s response couldn’t have been more different. Her heart pounded, and her stomach tingled. Her skin came alive under his touch. When he wrapped his arm more securely around her lower back, her breath caught. He drew her closer until their chests touched. The hard planes of his were noticeable under his suit.
She vividly remembered running her fingertips over that smooth muscle, the way his warm skin slid against her own. In the past, they fit together so seamlessly that it felt destined, like it was written in the stars. And Lucy truly believed they’d be together forever.
And then…
Planting her palms on his chest, she pushed away from him. Joel resisted momentarily, then let her go. As he’d done so many years before.
She stepped away. “I can’t.” To her frustration and embarrassment, tears pricked her vision. Memories tugged the edges of her mind. The embers of old wounds caught a breath of oxygen and flamed until the ache came aliveinside her. Time to get as far away from Joel as she could. “I have to go.”
She didn’t wait for a response. Pushing past him, she wove through the crowded dance floor and headed for the main banquet doors, trying not to knock over any of the white-covered chairs as she went. Behind her, Joel called her name. The rough tone matched the agony coursing through her. Good, let him feel the pain too. Why should she be the only one to suffer all they’d lost together?
Lucy fled to the washroom, where she knew he couldn’t follow. She’d hide there until tomorrow if need be.
Escaping into an empty stall, she lowered the seat and sat heavily on top of it. Burrowing her face in her hands, she struggled to process everything that had happened in the last fifteen minutes.
Joel was here. She hadn’t seen him in four years. Okay, not entirely true. With her father working so closely with Morgan Construction, there were times she could not avoid his presence. But those few meetings always took place in a professional group setting, so neither of them had ever breeched the lines of corporate decorum. She’d avoided unnecessary eye contact and left at the first opportunity. The few times he’d attempted to draw her aside, she’d evaded him.
Until tonight. To say this was unexpected was the understatement of the century. She was supposed to be camouflaged between the cream puffs and tiramisu until enough time passed that she could inconspicuously leave—not confronting her husband in a ballroom full of Italians, where all of her world could witness her pain and report back to her parents.
“Luciana Barone, you have some explaining to do!” As if on cue, her aunt’s high-pitched voice echoed through thebathroom, piercing the sanctuary of her toilet stall. Graziella Barone, who everyone in the family called Zia Ella, banged on the door, rattling it. “Natalie is saying yourhusbandis here. And Matilde said you were getting cozy with Nico and then Joel Morgan dragged you into his arms like a man possessed. People arewhisperingLuciana, and I have no idea about what.” She pummeled the door again. “What in God’s name is going on? Open the door.”
“Zia,” Lucy grumbled, knowing the futility of resisting. “It’s not a good time. Can we talk about this later?”
