Stand-in Groom Read Free

believed she’d been mugged not quite an hour ago.
    She smiled as she climbed in the truck. “Police didn’t hassle you for double parking?”
    He smiled back at her as he started the engine. “Meals on Wheels trucks don’t get hassled.”
    She fastened her seat belt and began braiding her hair. “I don’t know how I can thank you for doing this.”
    It was the perfect segue. “Well,” he said. “Actually, I wasn’t kidding about that dinner. If you’re not busy tonight, I’d love to—”
    “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Chelsea Spencer shook her head, not meeting his eyes. That was a bad sign.
    He was silent then, just driving. She didn’t want to go out with him. He didn’t need a rejectionstamped onto his forehead. But then she glanced at him. Eye contact. It was all the encouragement he needed.
    “Look, I’ve got all of Sunday off,” he said, turning to gaze at her as he pulled up to a red light. “And if you’re busy then, let me give you my phone number, and that way, if you’re ever not busy, you can give
me
a call and—”
    “I’m busy Sunday.” She met his eyes, firmly, squarely.
    Johnny was the one who had to look away as the traffic moved forward. He was about a block and a half from Chelsea’s office, and he pulled into the right lane, keeping his signal on so that the cars behind him knew he was going to stop.
    “I’m sorry,” she said softly, and as he put the truck into park he looked over at her.
    She was still watching him and she
did
look sorry. Was it the money thing? Or maybe it was the class thing. She probably came from a family who could trace their roots back before the time of the
Mayflower
. Johnny’s father, however, was a first-generation American, paternity unknown.
    Or maybe it was just an unspoken rule. Girls from Brookline didn’t date guys from his part oftown. But maybe someday she’d decide to break the rules.
    He reached alongside the seat for his clipboard and the pen that was attached. “Let me give you my number—”
    Chelsea was shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Because on Sunday—”
    “Take it anyway,” he said, writing his home number on a scrap of paper. “’Cause you never know, you know?”
    “… I’m getting married.”
    Johnny looked up. She was still looking at him, her blue eyes apologetic. “Married,” he repeated.
    She nodded. “On Sunday.”
    “This
Sunday?”
    Another nod.
    He looked out the window. “Oh.” He put down the clipboard, glancing over at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable …”
    “And I didn’t mean to make
you
uncomfortable.” She slipped out of the truck. “Don’t forget to make that police report.”
    “I won’t.”
    “Thanks again.” She gave him one last smile and shut the door.
    “Hey, Chelsea.”
    She pulled herself up on the running board and looked in the open window.
    “This guy you’re marrying on Sunday …”
    “Emilio Santangelo,” she said.
    Emilio Santangelo. It was as Italian-American a name as Giovanni Anziano. It could have been him. He, Johnny Anziano, could have been standing at that altar come Sunday morning.
    Not that he wanted to marry Chelsea Spencer. He just wanted a date or two. Or twelve. Or thirty … And hell, if she was going to marry some guy named Santangelo, she would’ve had no problem going on a date with an Anziano. It was his tough luck, though. He was too damn late.
    “Tell Emilio congratulations for me,” Johnny told her. “Tell him he’s one hell of a lucky guy.”
    Chelsea smiled at him. “Thanks, John. For everything.”

TWO
    “H I , C HELS . I T’S ME , ’Milio. It’s really important that you call me back. It doesn’t matter what time it is here in Rome, just
call me.
”
    Beep
.
    “Chelsea, it’s Emilio again. There’s something wrong with your phone at home and I can’t get through. As soon as you get this message, call me. Day or night.”
    Beep
.
    “Chelsea. Where are you? If you’re in the office,