Bridgewater, Pennsylvania
“Shit, shit, shit.”
Of course the contents of my borrowed clutch spill all over the floor as I look for my name. There are only four place cards left on the table. At least I’m not the only guest ridiculously late. Crouching down, I shove my keys back inside.
“Can I help you?”
As I scoop up a tube of lip gloss, a young man in a tux peers over me.
“Yes, please. I was just looking for my table assignment. Fuller?”
Finally cleaned up, I stand just as he claims a folded card from the table. “Ms. Evie Fuller.”
Eh-vee, I mentally correct him. Gotta love a name that one hundred percent of people mispronounce. Reaching for it, I take the card from his gloved hand. “Thank you.”
He points down the hall. “The DeLuca reception is that way.”
It would have been easy enough to find; the Yorkfield Barn only has one event space. I’ve been to two weddings here before, but never, I suspect, one quite like this. Between Enzo’s massive amounts of wealth and Chari’s good taste, I’m prepared to have my breath taken away.
“Evie, thank goodness,” a familiar voice calls just as I begin walking.
Cole and Zara Donovan, one of my favorite couples in the world.
“I thought for sure we were the last ones here,” Zara says as Cole grabs their table card. “I’m so embarrassed to come in so late.” She gives me a quick hug.
“Same. I had some trouble at the restaurant and didn’t even make the ceremony. Was it amazing?”
Problem with owning a family restaurant? Wearing all the hats. I could kick myself for having trusted a new vendor without properly vetting him, but no one expected a hundred-year-old produce supplier to go out of business, just like that.
“It was unbelievable. Enzo teared up when Chari came down the aisle.”
“He did not tear up,” Cole says, coming up to us. “Hey, Evie.”
“Hi, Cole.”
He offers Zara his arm. “There was something in his eye.”
Zara scolds him as we walk toward the main entrance. “And what exactly is wrong with a man crying? That’s the kind of thing we need to normalize. The boy code has to go.”
Cole winks at me as Zara makes a face. It’s clear to everyone he knows that would get a rise out of her, and Zara took the bait.
“What held you guys up?” I ask.
When Zara’s cheeks turn immediately pink, I can’t help but laugh.
“I mean, look at her,” Cole says in their defense.
To be fair, Zara does look amazing. She doesn’t typically wear a ton of makeup, her flaming red hair enough to turn heads all on its own.
“I thought you were coming with Jay?” Zara asks.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen or talked to her, restaurant and all, and she clearly hasn’t heard. Not much happens in Bridgewater without most of the town knowing, so I’m somewhat surprised. Although Zara is a newspaper publisher now, so she’s been pretty busy too.
“We broke up.”
Zara stops, and Cole with her.
“Oh no. I’m so sorry.”
Yeah, me too.
“It’s fine. Just happened.”
I almost clarify it’s been ten days and five hours. But that would mean I’m keeping track. Which I obviously am, but wish I wasn’t. “Less than two weeks ago.”
She waits for more, so I offer the sucky details.
“He broke up with me.”
“Are you serious? What an idiot.”
Almost thirty. Single again. Yeah, super fun.
“You guys dated for like . . .”
“A year and a half,” I provide. “But it’s ok.”
Although really, it’s not. The whole thing sucks.
“His sister’s engagement party was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He didn’t understand how I could take time off this weekend but not for that.”
Cole frowns. “Doesn’t his sister live in Newport?”
“Yeah. So it would have been a whole weekend. I can’t afford to take that much time away from the restaurant. Especially not now.”
Zara nods in understanding. “When are they coming?”
We begin to walk again.
“The judges?”
“Mm-hmm.” She takes Cole’s arm again.
“The first two weeks in June. They don’t give an exact date. One day—poof!—they’ll just appear.”
I’ve got big plans for my parents’ restaurant. A way to honor them, and especially my mom, who started it almost thirty years ago. If Mama Leoni’s is ever going to win a Beard Award, this is as good a first step as any. The Cucina Award might not be as prestigious, but it will get us on the map, something a small-town restaurant needs to attract national attention. If I were in New York City, that would be a totally different story.
But that ship has sailed.
“You must be a nervous wreck.”
“Cole,” Zara chides him, “some tact, please?”
He doesn’t seem concerned by Zara’s reprimand. Actually, he seems amused by it. Cole loves to tease her.
“Oh, wow.”
As we get to the entrance, what looks like a movie scene comes into view. Even though I’ve been here before, I’m not at all prepared for the transformation.
Although it maintains that rustic feel—we are in a barn, after all—there’s an elegance to the room that I don’t remember. Wisteria hangs from every ceiling beam with white lights everywhere. Although it’s still bright outside, the barn is dark enough that the lights glow, highlighting crisp white linens and flowers that are all cream or white, their leaves the only color. The effect is magical.
“Did you ever see anything like it?” Zara whispers to no one in particular.
I’m about to respond when I finally pick my jaw up off the floor and realize the groom’s brother is giving a toast.
His voice catches as our eyes lock.
Tristano DeLuca.
The Greek god is even hotter than usual in a tux. Hair so black it almost looks purple, long on top with a lock falling into his eyes. Sharp cheekbones under chocolate-brown eyes. Tristano’s perpetual five o’clock shadow and deep, smooth voice give him the distinction of looking partly like his billionaire brother and partly like the kind of guy you might normally find in this barn. Envisioning him sitting atop a horse with a cowboy hat does nothing to force my gaze away.
“What table are you at?” Zara whispers.
“Five.” I break eye contact with my rival, the owner of the second-best Italian restaurant in Bridgewater, and look at the table signs.
“Me too. I think it’s this way.”
Tristano’s talking again, but I ignore him, as much as it’s possible to ignore someone like him, and follow Cole and Zara to our table.
It’s going to be a long night.
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