My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

As long I get right back to work afterward, I bargain with myself.

I’m so close to my goal of paying off my business loans for SweetPea Boutique, my flower shop. A loan I got myself, not from my dad and not because of my last name but rather because I had a good idea, a solid business plan, and a long list of clients that has grown along with my reputation.

But I need this. A few minutes of wild and crazy isn’t too much to ask, is it? It can be like a bucket list thing I look back on fondly when I’m old and gray, rocking on the porch of the nursing home.

“Ah, yes. I was a wicked one in my younger days. A lover of love. Once, I even sexed up a foreign stranger at a wedding. We drove each other mad with lust and only made it as far as the janitorial closet before we were all over each other. He was something else,” I’ll say with a wistful sigh.

This fantasy might be a little extreme considering I’ve barely told him my name, but my mind’s always been prone to fanciful wanderings.

“I’m Lorenzo Toscani. Violet’s cousin, though I suspect you already know that.” His deep voice drops to a murmur, keeping the words between the two of us. His brow rises incrementally, daring me to challenge him by disagreeing.

He’s flirting, or maybe it’s just the Italian way? Whatever it is, it’s sending pulses of electricity to my needy nipples and clit. And he still hasn’t let go of my hand.

“She said you’re new to town, and I thought you might like a . . .” Words fail me because all I can think of is ‘fuck buddy’ and ‘one-night stand’, neither of which are appropriate to be tossing around at a wedding reception with a videographer sneaking around to record the festivities.

“A dance?” he suggests.

That is definitely not what I was going to suggest. Mostly because I’m a shitty dancer.

I mean, I can hold my own on a crowded club dance floor where everyone’s gyrating and grinding. But actual dance moves? Like a salsa or foxtrot? No way, and that’s after Mom insisted that we take cotillion classes as kids and several Zumba classes with Courtney.

“Sure.”

Who said that?

Oh, shit, I think I did because Lorenzo is smiling at me, white teeth framed by those lips I’d like to feel on my skin again. Maybe on my hand. Maybe somewhere else.

My hand still in his, he leads me away from the buffet and to the center of the dance floor. The DJ seems to be on Team Get Abi Laid because he plays a slow song. It’s something I haven’t heard before, but the beat is deep and driving. Lorenzo holds our joined hands out and then looks me straight in the eye as he gently puts his other hand on my lower back.

Hallelujah and Praise Armani! And thank you, Courtney, for choosing this bridesmaid dress with a low back because the instant Lorenzo’s warm palm touches my skin, a barely perceptible shiver works its way through every cell in my body. He notices, not that I’m trying to hide it.

Ordinarily, I’d swipe the smug tilt of his lips right off his face with a well-placed barb. Right now, it’s mere confirmation that we’re on the same page.

We sway with the music, the inches of proper space between us disappearing with every turn and maneuver. I wish our clothes would do the same thing, simply vanish into thin air, so that I could feel more of his warm skin along mine. I follow the line of tattoos again, wondering how far beneath his shirt they go.

Does the ink cover his chest? His arms? His back? More?

Oh, God! I wonder if there are piercings to go along with the tattoos? I’ve never been with a pierced guy before, but I hear exciting and naughty things. I’d be willing to check that off my bucket list too if Lorenzo’s got a Prince Albert hiding behind those tailor-fit slacks.

I step a little closer with the next sway, trying to see if I can tell through the fabric. And though I feel something, I don’t think it’s a piercing. It’s too big, too long, and too rigid against my belly to be a tiny barbell.

“Abigail,” he growls, liquid velvet over grit. A warning? A plea? I’m not sure, but I feel the syllables along my skin and want him to say my name again, though it’s the first word either of us has said since we began dancing. Words haven’t been needed. He’s that good at this.

And why does his saying my full name sound so sexy? Usually, the only time I hear that is when I’m in trouble. Oh, that’s probably why. I am in trouble. The good kind.