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“Well, you’d better believe it, because in.

..” I pause to glance at my watch, squinting at the numbers in the fading light.

“...less than ten minutes, your feet will carry you gracefully down that aisle and you'll pledge your love and devotion to the man of your dreams.” My words drift off into the air as we both take a deep breath, savouring the significance of this moment.

The sun dips lower on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over everything around us, as if nature itself is celebrating this special occasion.

The gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze adds to the ethereal atmosphere, making it feel like time has slowed down just for us.

Despite any nerves or worries, there is an undeniable sense of joy and excitement in the air.

“Are you ready to become, Mrs Bianca Russo?” Bianca smiles and inhales a deep breath.

“More than ready.”

“Well, let’s get you married then.”

As we gather to walk down the aisle, I take my place behind two of Enzo’s cousins.

Bianca stands behind me, her arm linked with our Dad’s as we await the arrival of the flower girl and page boy.

As I slowly inch forward, my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes catch sight of Enzo at the altar in his impeccable black tuxedo.

His hands clench and unclench nervously by his sides, his anticipation palpable.

But it is not until I see the figure standing beside him, also resplendent in a tuxedo, that my feet feel rooted to the ground.

The string quartet starts to play a beautiful cover of ‘At Last’ by Etta James as we wait to make our way down the aisle.

Holy smokes .

The air around me seems to crackle with electricity as our eyes meet, his golden eyes catch mine and hold them, unmoving. My stomach churns with nerves as I take in his chiselled features and towering height.

Who on earth is this dangerously alluring boy? My mind races with questions as I try to focus on taking each step down the aisle towards him, but my eyes keep wandering back to his captivating gaze. He’s like a tall glass of sin, one that is very tempting and irresistible.

The man standing in the position of best man is undoubtedly Enzo’s son, Matteo.

It is clear that they share a striking resemblance, from their tall stature to their golden-coloured eyes and sharp features.

Matteo appears to be a younger image of his father, though his hair is a shade lighter with glimmers of copper in the sunlight.

As I take my place at the altar, my nerves causing my knees to tremble, I can’t help but steal glances at the brooding figure opposite me.

My sister had mentioned his brooding demeanour before, and I can see it now in the way he stands, slightly apart from the rest of the wedding party.

There is a sense of reluctance in his stance, as if he would much rather be anywhere else but here.

Despite my nerves threatening to trip me up, I manage to make it down the aisle without any mishaps.

Though the thin sheen of sweat on the back of my neck betrays just how anxious I am.

And as I stand at the altar, trying not to fidget under Matteo’s intense gaze, I can feel a drop of sweat trickling down my back, a physical manifestation of his piercing stare.

Alright Jordyn, it’s your sister’s wedding. Try and focus on the ceremony instead of the gorgeous hunk of boy meat standing opposite you.

I’m not used to being stared down like that by a guy that gorgeous.

Like seriously, what is it about Italian men?

Do they drink from a special fountain of beauty and sex appeal or something?

Because fuck , he’s the kind of beautiful that feels intentional.

Like every feature was chosen and exaggerated for maximum effect.

This is unfair. No one should look like that and get away with it.

Drawing in a breath, I try to focus on the ceremony, on my sister’s steady breathing in front of me, but my attention frays. When the minister speaks, I hear only pieces. Devotion. Forever. Love. None of it lands.

In the effort it takes to avoid the best man’s gaze, my concentration is shot to hell.

It’s not until the minister pronounces them man and wife that I finally cave and allow my eyes to drift in Matteo’s direction.

I take advantage of the fleeting moment his eyes are cast down to fully take in his handsome features.

Those long dark lashes that frame his pretty hazel eyes have a curl to them that would send any woman. ..including myself into a fit of envy.

My gaze lowers to his soft pink lips. Slightly full, with a defined cupid’s bow on the upper lip.

The lower lip is gently curved and slightly fuller than the upper one, giving it a natural, balanced look.

The skin of his lips appears smooth, with a subtle, natural sheen that catches the light from where he licked it a moment ago.

The colour is a warm shade of pink that goes perfectly with the tan complexion of his skin.

My stomach tautens when I’m momentarily gripped and wondering if his lips would feel as soft as they look. I should probably mention that I am a nineteen-year-old virgin, who has never been kissed.

And no, it’s not a lack of interest, because I have had boys ask me out on dates, I’ve just never been attracted to any of them, certainly not enough to waste my first kiss on anyway.

Yes, I might be an idealist. And a walking cliche, but I do believe in the sanctity of a first kiss. It’s a special moment, one that shouldn’t be given away on a whim.

A first kiss is monumental. It should steal your breath away and leave you feeling as if the earth has shifted beneath your feet. Anything less than that would be a missed opportunity, a waste of such a powerful and intimate act.

So yes, call me romantic or naive, but I will always hold my first kiss and virginity in high regard and choose to give it to someone who will understand the significance and make me feel like I am floating on air.

The loud bang of the confetti bomb going off when Bianca and Enzo share their first kiss as husband and wife snaps me back to reality.

A reality where I find Matteo staring back at me with an indecipherable expression on his face.

Fuck me, why is he looking at me like that?

Under the olive trees strung with fairy lights, everything looks like it’s auditioning for a luxury wedding magazine. Tables glitter with lace and flowers, the Sicilian breeze gives perfect hair tousle, and I’m sweating like a sandwich wrapped in cellophane.

Bianca and Enzo swirl across the dance floor in marital bliss while I contemplate drinking my champagne straight from the bottle. My dress has fused to my body from heat, my shoes are plotting homicide, and there is not enough rosé in the world to make me graceful.

Then the singer makes the announcement that ruins lives.

“Can we please have our lovely maid of honour and best man join the couple for the customary dance?”

Customary what now? I don’t remember signing up for this. I thought being a bridesmaid meant smiling, wearing pastel, and not falling over in public. Now I’m expected to slow dance with Mr Broody Mafia Spawn like this is Bridgerton?

Matteo stands and tosses back the last of his drink like he’s walking into battle.

His tuxedo jacket is gone, his bowtie abandoned.

His sleeves are rolled up just enough to show off biceps sculpted by what I assume is genetics and sin.

There’s a tattoo sleeve winding down his arm that looks suspiciously like it could kill me.

I rise on legs that forgot how knees work. My shoe heel promptly snags on my dress, because of course it does, and I lunge forward with the elegance of a sleep-deprived giraffe.

This is it. Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m going viral.

Except, Matteo steps in. One hand curls around my waist, steadying me against his chest with the type of ease usually reserved for action heroes and men in shampoo commercials.

“Fai attenzione, Fossette,” he says quietly near my ear.

His breath is warm. His scent is woodsy and expensive. My brain? Deleted. I’ve officially turned into melted gelato.

“I—I’m sorry?”

He glances down at my feet, then up at me. “You will be if you ruin my shoes.”

I blink. “Honestly, these feet have offended finer things than your loafers.”

He doesn’t reply. He just smirks in a way that makes my uterus tap dance.

The music starts. A slow song. Of course .

Matteo pulls me in, and we begin to sway. I am a trembling pile of nerves and lip gloss. He is terrifyingly calm and stunning, like Michelangelo carved him as a joke to make the rest of us look bad.

His hand rests lightly at my waist. His fingers are warm. I spend the entire first minute repeating “Don’t step on his feet. Don’t fart. Don’t say something stupid.”

Which is hard when every time he blinks, my internal monologue becomes something out of a cheesy romance novel.

We twirl once. Sort of. I trip over nothing and manage to recover with a weird shoulder shimmy that I swear was meant to be “flirty.” It was not.

He looks at me, amused. “You always dance like this?”

“I usually avoid dancing unless I'm in my bedroom alone pretending I’m Beyoncé.”

He chuckles low, and I internally combust. Even his laugh is attractive.

I glance down at his lips. They’re full and soft-looking, like they were handcrafted by a team of French pastry chefs. I panic. My stomach tightens. My brain decides now is a great time to deliver a revelation.

I’m a nineteen-year-old virgin who’s never been kissed. And now I’m in a sweaty dress, in front of a hundred wedding guests, slow dancing with a man whose eyelashes deserve their own agent.

I fix my gaze somewhere between his collarbone and left eyebrow and pray I don’t burst into flames.

If this is how heartache starts, I’m doomed.