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“Buck-fucking-naked?” Dante asks in total disbelief.
“Naught more than what the good Lord gave ye,” Hamish replies with a wink as a flood of women rush in, giggling and fawning. Not that Dante, Dillon, or Mateo mind at all—this is probably just a typical Saturday night for them.
But Smoke’s head is practically steaming. He just tied the knot, and the last thing he wants is his wife’s, or her family’s, wrath all over his ass.
As for me, none of these women interest me. At all. My dick has been spoiled on an exclusive diet of Bella’s mouth and pussy. Anything less, and he’d rather starve.
Hamish quiets the room. “Ladies, please. We’re professionals. No ogling the steers. Each of you has very little time to cover these fine gentlemen’s gibly-bits. The men will strip down, but only to their boxers.”
A resounding boo echoes through the room. I tap Hamish on the shoulder. “While you’re working miracles, I’ve got one more request.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
KENNEDY
“Why the frown, bellissima?” Ricardo asks.
There isn’t a square inch of me that hasn’t been fussed over, primped, and polished to perfection, and all I want to do is rip it all off, grab a tub of Ben and Jerry’s, and lock myself in my crappy little apartment for three days, pretending none of this is happening.
But it is happening.
This is my wedding day. I know because there’s a line of lace trailing from my hair to the floor, a ring the size of Mt. Everest weighing down my finger, and creamy vanilla silk wrapping me like a glove.
Or a shroud.
Honestly, I’m in too much shock to truly take in all of Ricardo’s hard work. If he and his seamstresses hadn’t worked me over like a pit crew, I’m pretty sure I’d be getting married in yoga pants.
What happened to something old, new, borrowed, and blue?
To soaking in the warmth of family and friends?
To the exhilarating sprint out of the church, while onlookers showered you in rose petals or biodegradable confetti or whatever the hell else we do to save the birds?
And what about love?
Am I the only lunatic left in a world gone cynical, believing that the cornerstone of marriage is love?
But the man has worked long and hard, and I will not shit all over his stunning creation. I force a smile, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s perfect,” I say, my heart clenching as I miss Da more than ever.
He scrutinizes me, shaking his head—a gesture I’ve come to both dread and expect. It usually leads to more fussing. And hair shears are never off the table. “It’s missing something,” he mutters, lost in his creative thought.
Gee, could it be a bride who actually wants to get married?
“Ah, I’ve got it!” He claps his hands with dramatic flair.
And . . . nothing.
I’m pretty sure if he were summoning his band of seamstresses, they’d be too busy drooling over my husband-to-be and his insanely hot brothers. Someone’s definitely getting a bachelor party, and yes, it bugs the crap out of me.
Then Ricardo does it again. Flamboyant clap, words repeated. “Ah, I know!” he hollers louder.
The doors burst open, and in fly Sofie and Lili, a rush of pillowy soft skirts and cascading curls. My smile widens as they dart toward me, my two lively pixies.
They swarm me with giggles and exuberant hugs, and I fight back the surge of tears.
“Are you really marrying the prince?” Little Lili asks, her smile so radiant it threatens to split her cheeks.
Their words hit me like a lead weight. Am I really marrying Enzo?
