Call Me Crazy (Bellamy Creek #3) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,40

lot not far from the pub. “We knew what we were getting into when we made this deal. I know it’s not conventional, but what is marriage anyway? Maybe it’s just an illusion perpetuated by Disney movies and romance novels. Maybe it’s just a piece of paper. Maybe it’s just an antiquated idea that reeks of misogyny and sexism—I mean, the bride’s dad gives her away like she’s a piece of property!”

I turned off the car and looked over at her. “That seems kind of harsh.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I bought into the fantasy all my life. I was waiting for the handsome prince to decide on me, but he didn’t. He didn’t, Enzo. So I decided on me.” She was all worked up now, color in her cheeks, defiance in her eyes. “But I need your help.”

“I need your help too.” I tried to shake off the anxiety, running a hand over my hair. “Sorry, I don’t know what my problem is.”

She let out a breath. “It’s okay. Look, it’s been a crazy week. Things happened fast, and our heads are spinning. You probably haven’t gotten much sleep—I know I haven’t. So let’s go in and have a few drinks, eat some fried pickles, and celebrate our partnership with our friends and family. So what if it’s not exactly the kind of partnership they all think it is?”

“Uh, about that.” I cringed. “I kind of let the truth slip to my friends.”

“Enzo!” She pressed her lips together. “Who?”

“Cole already knew, so really just two more people—Griffin and Beckett.”

She nodded, accepting it. “They know to keep it to themselves?”

“Yes. And I trust them with my life.”

“Then I will too.” She smiled. “So let’s go face the music and dance.”

Eight

Bianca

“You did what?” I looked down at the envelope in my hands and across the table at my parents.

“We got you a night in the honeymoon suite at the Bellamy Creek Inn.” My mother beamed. “It’s your wedding present.”

Enzo and I exchanged a what-the-fuck-do-we-do-now glance, the first one of the night.

Our party was in full swing around us, and everyone was having a great time, myself included. The jukebox was loud, the food was tasty, the crowd was rambunctious, and there was nothing formal or stuffy about the occasion at all. More than one person had told me it was the most fun they’d ever had at a wedding reception.

We’d only done one or two traditional things—we’d cut the cake, Griffin had made a quick toast, I’d thrown my bouquet—so mostly it just felt like a fun night out with friends. Enzo and I had even danced together (our song was officially “Witchcraft” by Frank Sinatra, chosen by Enzo, of course) and smashed cake in each other’s faces. Every once in a while, someone would start clinking a fork on the side of their glass, and soon the room would fill with the sound. Enzo and I dutifully joined lips each time, but our kisses were always closed-mouthed and quick. It seemed like we’d get through the night without any trouble.

And then my parents called us over to their table and handed us a great big wrench in the shape of a gift certificate for the honeymoon suite.

“We—we hadn’t really planned on a honeymoon or anything,” I said. “We’re both so busy with work.”

“I know, that’s why this is perfect. It’s just for the night.” My mother sighed. “You’ll love it. The package includes champagne and chocolates, breakfast in bed . . . I know you said you didn’t need time away, but you’re newlyweds! You need at least one special night.”

“Gee, thanks.” I forced a smile. Next to me, Enzo squirmed in his seat. “We’ll, um, enjoy this. But you really didn’t have to.”

“Well, you guys insisted on paying for your own wedding,” my father said. “It was the least we could do.”

“Right.” I tucked the envelope into my bag and finished my wine. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get another glass of Prosecco.”

“I’ll join you,” said Enzo, rising to his feet. “Thank you very much for the gift, Mr. and Mrs. DeRossi.”

“Ah ah,” my father said, his tone a warning.

Enzo straightened his tie and tried not to wince. “I mean Mom and Dad.”

My parents glowed.

As we walked to the bar, Enzo put a hand on the small of my back. I’d noticed it was something he did often, and I had to admit I sort of liked it. It was an intimate gesture without being suggestive. Deep