Page 2 of The Mobster’s Mistress

"Just nervous," he manages.

"Nobody's going to look at us. They're waiting for the bride." I steer him toward an empty chair, but he clamps a hand over his mouth before we reach it.

Oh, shit.

"Derek, don't you dare."

He spins toward an enormous arrangement of white roses and throws up directly into it. Loudly. A bridesmaid screams, the coordinator demands towels, and somebody shoves a trash can beneath Derek's chin just in time for round two.

"Well," I mutter, "there goes five hundred dollars' worth of flowers."

Derek looks mortified when he can finally breathe. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened."

"You got sick. It happens." I pass him a bottle of water and squeeze his shoulder. "Let's get you somewhere quiet before the roses file a complaint." He gives me a grateful smile as an attendant helps him to the restroom.

"What's happening?" Elise calls from farther down the hallway. She looks one misplaced centerpiece away from a breakdown.

I intercept her before she sees the floral crime scene. "Derek's not feeling well, but he's being looked after. You and Nico are still getting married today. If I have to walk down that aisle carrying a cardboard cutout of a groomsman, I will."

That earns a shaky laugh. The coordinator, however, looks ready to burst into flames.

"We need a replacement," she announces. "The processional starts in four minutes!"

"I'll take his place."

The deep masculine voice comes from just behind the coordinator. I turn, and every intelligent thought I've ever had promptly leaves my head.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The man standing there looks like somebody ordered the deluxe edition of a romance hero. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a perfectly tailored tuxedo. His dark hair is touched with silver at the temples, and his deep brown eyes are fixed on me, not the panicking coordinator.

He's maybe early forties, with the confidence of a man who's never checked his bank balance before ordering dessert.

"I can escort the lady," he says.

"Thank goodness." The coordinator nearly melts with relief. "You're with the groom?"

"A friend of Nico's." He glances at Derek being helped away. "Make sure he's taken care of."

I wonder how much of the disaster he's witnessed, including my attempts to keep Elise from crying. Elise gives him a relieved smile.

"Bridget, this is Lorenzo Moretti. Lorenzo, my best friend, Bridget Collins."

He takes my hand, warm fingers closing around mine. "Enzo. Unless you're planning on being angry with me. Then you can call me Lorenzo."

I laugh before I can stop myself. "Should I be expecting a reason?"

"Not unless you object to a man who knows what he wants."

"And what exactly do you want, Enzo?"

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. "At the moment? To walk down that aisle with the prettiest woman at this wedding."

"You're laying it on a little thick."

"I don't think so."

"Does that line usually work?"