Page 28 of My Wedding Mafia Style

I glance at the closed door, beyond which Luca is somewhere on this yacht, probably standing in perfect control of himself while I am being fashionisted to death by two women who treat international travel like a brunch location.

“I don’t even have my purse,” I say weakly.

Bianca brightens. “Sofia had it brought from the reception.”

“My purse is here?”

“Yes.”

“Of course it is.”

“And your phone.”

“My phone too?”

“Obviously.”

I exhale. “This family is alarmingly efficient.”

“Thank you,” Bianca says.

“That was not entirely praise.”

“We accept it anyway.”

I glance back at the emerald dress. “If I try this on, it does not mean I have agreed to the Bahamas.”

“Of course not,” Bianca says smoothly.

Isabella nods. “Trying on swimwear means that.”

I point at her. “You are not helping.”

“I rarely do.”

Bianca presses the dress more firmly into my arms. “Start with this. We’ll emotionally ambush you with the swimsuit afterward.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

“You’re welcome.”

Chapter 9

Lucy

Afew minutes later, I am behind a folding screen, wrestling myself out of the bridesmaid dress while Bianca provides commentary no one asked for and Isabella asks increasingly unhelpful questions.

“So,” Isabella says, “was the kiss better on the yacht or at the reception?”

I nearly strangle myself with a zipper. “That is not an appropriate question.”

“She didn’t ask if it was good,” Bianca says. “She asked for comparison. Very different.”

“It is not different.”

“It’s a little different,” Isabella says.

I yank the green dress over my hips. “I am not ranking kisses.”