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“She can’t marry him,” I say again. I stare at Paisley till she turns her blue eyes to settle on me. “Because she belongs to me.”
I can feel the smile as it spreads over her beautiful face. “Oh, Sav.” Her softly whispered words echo through the silent church.
Bronson’s out of his pew and inches from my face in what must be a record-breaking time frame. I tear my gaze away from Paisley, glad she finally knows how I feel about her.
I stand there, fully prepared to die.
There’s no right thing to say. “I’m sorry, sir. Things happen.”
Okay, so there may not be a whole lot of things I can say in this situation but that definitely wasn’t it because he’s grabbing the lapels of my suit jacket and getting in my face.
“What the hell? What are you saying?” Bronson narrows his dark brows at me, full protective-father fury ablaze in his very close eyes. His next words come out one at a time. He gives me a hard shake with each word. “What. Happened. On. That. Trip?”
“Nothing. Everything.” I shake my head. “I didn’t plan for this.”
His hand slides into his pocket and I’m certain he’s reaching for the knife he keeps there. We all have one. “Didn’t plan for what, exactly?” he demands.
“Dad!” Paisley comes streaming down the aisle, a vision of white and gauzy fabric and bright eyes. She’s…still smiling? Absolutely beaming. And as she calls her father’s name again, her focus is solely on me. “Dad.”
She reaches us.
Her father drops his hand from my jacket. “Katie. What is going on?”
She stands between us and faces her father. “Sav.” She grips her bouquet of flowers tightly in her hands. “We didn’t mean for this to happen. It just did. It’s no one’s fault. But if there’s someone to blame, blame me.”
The father of the bride’s words are constricted, calculated. “What happened, exactly?”
Her smile falters for a moment. She looks over her shoulder to me, begging me with those baby blues to be the man she’s decided I am.
The man she knows I can be.
“Sir, can we speak somewhere more privately?” I ask.
“No,” he growls. “If I get you alone somewhere I’ll be the only one walking out of that room. Now explain.”
I look to Paisley, then I look to him. “It’s simple,” I say, ready to explain.
Before I can finish, we’re joined by two more. Mrs. Bachman, moving impossibly fast in her high stilettos, and Tess, flying with her red hair on fire behind her, come speedwalking over to our group.
“It’s not their fault,” Tess says, grabbing Bronson’s arm. “It’s not. It’s mine.” Her pale skin is marked with blotches of red at her cheeks. “It’s me. I did this.” She bends at the waist, catching her breath. “Jesus, all that hot yoga and my lungs still suck. I guess I need more cardio.”
“Cardio? My daughter’s entire future is at stake, and you want to talk about your posh West End yoga classes?” Bronson rakes a furious hand through his hair, pacing the floor.
“Stop it, Tess. It was me. And I told you all that hot yoga was terrible for your electrolytes anyway.” Mrs. Bachman shakes her head, putting an arm around her daughter’s waist, pushing me further out of the circle. “I’m so sorry I put you in this position, Katie. I never dreamed it would all come down to this moment.”
Paisley looks from her mom to Tess, then back again at her mother. “Mom! What are you talking about? Aunt Tess? How can two people falling in love be your fault?”
“Falling in love!” Bronson growls. “What the heck are you two talking about? And if someone mentions hot yoga one more time?—”
The church is dead silent. I look up to the altar, half expecting the Russo clan to be arming up and prepared to take me out, the man who just ruined a wedding that cost more than my first house. Gio stands there, staring down at us, a peculiar look on his face. Our eyes meet, and he looks away. The rest of the family begins to worry, whispering to one another, their heavy stares resting on our group of five stuck in the middle of the aisle.
A worried look passes between Mrs. Bachman and Tess. “We have a confession.”
Bronson runs a hand through his hair. “You ladies need me to grab the priest for this confession, or you think you can fill me in, Paige?”
“Not here,” Mrs. Bachman hisses at him.
Bronson’s answering whisper is harsh, angry. “We’re in the middle of a freaking wedding. With the Russos. Who we owe at least an explanation to, not to mention a couple hundred thousand euros for this goddamn wedding,” he snaps. “What are we supposed to do?”
