My heart twangs, and I can’t resist the command in his voice. “Okay.”
“Good girl.” He gives me a little nod.
Ohh, that sounds so nice. Heat rises to my cheeks and an answering smile spreads across my face.
“But first, let’s get you a glass of something delicious and fizzy to celebrate snatching a successful wedding out of the jaws of a rogue dog.”
He offers me his arm and it’s so sweetly old-fashioned and in contrast to the tattoos on his neck and hands that I giggle as I put my hand on his sleeve. This is nothing, I know that. He’s just being a considerate host and stand-in father of the bride. But I probably have stars in my eyes as he leads me to another terrace where there are waiters with champagne flutes and trays of tiny canapes.
The other guests approach him with compliments about the ceremony and polite small talk, almost like he’s a celebrity in his own family. Quickly, I realise that I’m out of place. But when I go to remove my hand from his arm, he smoothly switches his glass to his other hand and catches mine before I’ve shifted an inch.
I freeze, and look up into Dante’s face. He quirks one brow, as if to say, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Dante,” Lucia’s voice cuts through the general conversation, and we both look over.
“You’re needed for family photographs,” Lucia says, taking in Dante’s hand on mine in a sweeping glance.
Oh god she probably thinks I’m a hussy, hanging on the arm of her brother, who is evidently much older and richer than me. I guess I look like a gold-digger to her. I want to curl into an embarrassed ball.
Feeling panicky, I tug on my hand. Dante’s fingers tighten for a split-second, then let me go.
“Sure,” he says easily, and my silly heart sinks. “Bring your glass, Ruby.”
My brain doesn’t process the casual command at first, but the press of Dante’s hand at the small of my back is very clear, and I move in step with him.
Lucia notices it too, and shoots her brother an enquiring look.
Dante replies with a bland smile. “We’re not leaving Ruby on her own after she saved this wedding at least three times, even if there’s excellent food. And besides, who knows when your daughter’s dog will choose furry violence and we’ll need her.”
Lucia snorts. “You’re lucky I haven’t chosen violence against you.”
I’ve no clue what she means by that, but we’re back on the patio where the ceremony took place, and I stop well behind the photographer. Lucia continues, but Dante pauses with me.
“No running away,” he murmurs. “I’ll be watching.”
And that sends an inappropriate bolt of heat through me.
“Okay,” I reply faintly.
The afternoon light is stunning, and as the photographer and her assistant get everyone into position, I sit down and watch. There are a lot of formal photos, and my gaze tracks Dante as though we’re connected with a silver thread.
It’s like my own personal show of one of those social media videos of a glamorous life. And yeah, I’m on the fringes, but the way Dante keeps looking over at me to check I’m okay is really nice.
Paternal, that’s what I tell myself.
Dante arranges it so that I have dinner with the guests rather than the support staff. Not at the head table with him and the main wedding party, but with some of the bride’s family—her second cousins—who make very polite conversation to find out who I am and include me nominally, while chatting mainly in Italian.
It’s okay though. The food is amazing, and every now and again Dante finds me across the room—he’s exceptionally tall, so it’s easy for him to look over everyone’s heads—and checks in with a nod. And I reply with the same.
No one at my table has anything but praise for the Angelini family, particularly Dante. The only weird thing that happens is when I go to the loo.
“And those tattoos,” a woman who might be one of a pair of the groom’s aunts says judgmentally as I walk past their table. I pause, pretending to have a problem with my shoe.
“What do you expect from a man inhis line of work?” a second woman sniffs.
They’re talking about Dante. No question. No one else at this wedding has tattoos on show.
I wonder what his job is? Something fancy, and perhaps a bit morally grey. There are a surprising number of security guards, but that could just be a rich people thing?
