Page 33 of My Wedding Mafia Style
“Yes.”
She stops. I stop with her.
Her eyes widen. “That was too fast.”
“It was true.”
“Luca.”
“Lucy.”
“You are supposed to reassure me.”
“I did. I answered honestly.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It saves time.”
“For whom? My nerves are filing paperwork.”
I look down at her, and for a moment the controlled answer I would normally give does not arrive. Her nerves are real. Her humor makes them easier to survive, but I can feel the tension in her hand. She is still here, still walking beside me, still choosing this, but I do not want her to feel trapped inside a situation I began to enjoytoo much.
I turn more fully toward her. “You do not have to impress her.”
Lucy blinks, as if the seriousness of my voice catches her off guard. “I don’t?”
“No.”
“Are we talking about the same woman?”
“Yes.”
“The one who renamed me?”
“Yes.”
“The one who looks like she could make a grown man confess to crimes he has only considered?”
“That is also accurate.”
“So I don’t have to impress her, but I should maybe avoid blinking wrong?”
This time, I do smile. “You already impressed her.”
Lucy goes still as this surprises her. It shouldn’t, but it does.
“With what?” she asks.
“Being yourself.”
Her expression softens in a way that makes the space between us feel suddenly less amusing and more dangerous. I should look away. I do not.
“That was dangerously close to sweet,” she says quietly.
“I’ll recover.”
“I’m sure you will.”
