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“I need all hands on deck to keep us on task, men,” Topher continues.

“We gotta be at the tailor soon. Sienna will kill us if we’re late and he can’t get us done.

Then we have the lemon farm for our private tour and lunch.

They’re sticklers for the personalized paper tickets with unique codes for this VIP thing.

I plan to talk to them about optimizing and streamlining with LemonTech .

. . ,” he continues, but I stop listening, a knot forming as I look at Ricky and Cam, knowing Cam’s ticket is in pieces floating in pipes below the ground right now.

“Got it! We’re on a tight schedule. Let’s get going, then.” I turn and nearly bump into Ricky. “Mornayyy!” Air gets trapped in my throat. “Ha. Tried to say ‘morning,’ but the ole brain said, ‘Make it hey instead.’ ” I’m the living representation of the sweating awkwardly emoji.

He laughs and cranes his neck, his Adam’s apple and collarbone pronounced, and I want to trace them with my fingers. He brushes his hair back effortlessly, like a model mid-photoshoot. “Mornayyy.”

What do I say now? “How’d you sleep?” Lame.

“Pretty good. Cam snores.”

“Excuse me?” Cam drapes his arms around Ricky’s shoulders like one of Nonna’s winter capes.

A waft of black licorice and incense emanates from him.

“I’m constantly subjected to the symphonic range of your snoring, sir.

” He kisses Ricky on the side of his neck and looks up, as if he’s making sure I caught it.

Ricky blushes, and Cam offers a smile that glibly says, The boy is mine.

May the best man win.

Tucked into a cobblestone side street down an alley, with windows and planters with hanging vines and colorful, blooming flowers bathed in warm sunlight, is a large, ornate wooden door with an understated but regal copper placard that reads, “Massimo Andreozzi.” Topher was instructed to knock only once, and almost immediately the door opens and we’re ushered inside.

Within seconds, we’re offered espresso with lemon rinds and almond biscotti.

It’s deceptively large inside, despite the narrow hallways, but it’s still not large enough for eight grown men.

Massimo’s assistant, a tiny older woman with silver hair that spills in loose curls down her shoulders, is militant and directs each of us toward a small fitting room, but she must double us up.

Topher gets his own while Tyler and Trav are in another, followed by Ricky and his father, me and Matty, and Benny is lucky enough to go solo.

“What about Cam?” Benny asks.

“I’m just along for the ride,” Cam says. “Apparently.”

“Sienna just booked the bridal party.” Guilt pulls at the corners of Topher’s lips. “Sorry, dude.”

“A little harsh, bro, dontcha think?” Matty whispers to Topher.

Cam looks squarely at me. “It’s totally fine. I’m happy to be here.” He grabs Ricky’s hand. “I can go shopping in the square.”

“Cam can have my spot,” I suggest.

“Fielder, you’re my best man,” Topher says, eyebrows arching in shock.

“It’s totally okay,” I say. “I can come back. I don’t want Cam to feel left out.”

A tall, slender man with starched caramel-colored chinos and a wrinkle-free linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves emerges in a doorway, arms crossed.

He glares at Cam over the rims of his turquoise-and-gold thin-framed octagonal glasses.

Clears his throat. Then starts rattling off something in rapid-fire Italian, throwing his hands in the air, gesturing toward each group and their fitting rooms. I catch some of the words, like “spicciare,” as he rushes us inside.

“No,” Massimo says. “No coming back. No more appointments this week!”

What a loud, angry man.

This is where I shine. Best man duties and all. “Mr. Andreozzi, look, this is my cousin’s wedding, and we have one additional person,” I say, cozying up next to him, laying it on thick, draping my arm around him. “Is there any way we can squeeze him in at all? I can be quick.”

“It’s not about quick,” Massimo says. “It’s not about quick. You cannot rush fashion.” His thick brows furrow.

Topher comes up beside me and slyly slips what feels like a few hundred euros in my hands.

“I understand. It’s a great imposition. And we really don’t want to disrespect you and your art.

We really do appreciate you being able to accommodate us,” I say, pulling back and taking his free hand in both of mine, casually slipping the money inside, a trick we all learned as kids from Nonna at the local bingo hall.

If you don’t grow up learning how to bribe your way through gambling, are you really Italian?

“If there’s anything you can do, our family would be forever grateful to you.

My cousin is getting married, you know. This doesn’t happen all the time. ”

Massimo puts his hand in his pocket and, without so much as a second thought, says, “This is not a problem.” He points to Cam. “You can wait in the lobby. We already have too many in the dressing rooms, yes?”

Ricky mouths a “thank you” to me before Matty and I are ushered into our fitting room. Matty closes the curtain quickly.

“Damn, that scored you some serious points,” he says. “You should have seen Ricky’s face. He was floored.”

“Was he?”

“Cam too, honestly,” Matty says. “Oof, this espresso is hitting the spot.” He squeezes his eyelids tight.

I grab a biscotti from a tray and walk it over to him, running it under his nose.

Without opening his eyes, he snatches it and shoves it in his mouth.

Big golden retriever energy. “Why’d you do it? ”

“It was the right thing,” I say.

He opens one eye and concedes. “Bet.”

“And if Ricky and his dad and everyone else thinks it was an act of kindness, score one for me.”

“You crafty sonovabitch. I have much to learn.”

My pocket buzzes. “Topher wants me to come to his fitting room.”

“Enjoy. I’ll be here, alone,” Matty says through gritted teeth.

Problem: Which fitting room is Topher’s? By process of elimination, I follow Tyler and Trav’s voices and move past theirs; then I hear Ricky’s dad singing to himself in another. Then Massimo’s voice booms, and I’m sure he’s still working on Topher’s garments, so I follow the sound of his voice.

“Bellissimo!” Massimo bursts out from a curtain and makes his way into another, his seamstress in tow, and I recognize one word from the stream of Italian emanating from his mouth: sposo. Groom. That must be Topher.

“Dude, what’s up?” I toss back that same curtain, fully expecting Topher.

It’s Ricky. Bare-chested, in nothing but tight boxer briefs and socks.

He looks up, very deer in headlights.

I grip the curtain, white-knuckled, unable to stop staring at him. His body, the body I once knew so well like a map of the world and I was Magellan, has changed so much. From working out or woodworking, his biceps have grown exponentially; his midsection is also broader, more defined.

Compose yourself, Fielder.

The freckles dancing across his large pecs used to remind me of the Big Dipper, and I trace them now in my mind. It’s like finding my North Star again after living in the dark for a year.

A gold chain hangs around his neck with a circular pendant that looks almost like a ring, but I can’t make it out because it’s too dark. He moves so quickly to cover his junk that he inadvertently covers the pendant, too.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to—” I turn to leave.

“It’s okay!” he calls out, moving again, but he nearly trips because his pants pool at his ankles. He laughs. “I mean, you’ve seen me a lot more naked than this.”

Sure have.

I laugh nervously and say the honorable thing. “Was looking for Topher.”

“Across the hall.”

“Right.” I don’t know what to do now. There’s so much tension between us, and it makes me want to cry or scream or create a diversion so I can duck out and run.

I turn to walk away, when Ricky says, “Hey, Fielder. Thanks. For Cam. That was . . . really very sweet. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course. My pleasure.”

Why is this so awkward?

He nods and clears his throat. “What do you think about this look? Sienna picked it out for me for the ceremony, and I’m not sure about it.”

“Why don’t you ask Cam?”

“He took a walk into town to grab a water while he waits his turn, so—”

“You’re stuck with me?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.” He’s wrestling to put on his clothes. “I always valued your opinion more than anyone’s.”

A burst of warmth blooms in my chest.

I turn back around, and the pants that were around his ankles are buttoned around his waist. His arms are loose at his sides.

Don’t stare, Fielder. Keep it aboveboard.

My head is fuzzy as he smirks, puts his hands on his hips, his arms like arrows pointing toward—

My phone buzzes again, and it snaps me back. I try to speak, but my voice is suddenly gone. “What, uh, do you want me to see?”

“Ah.” Ricky turns around to grab a shirt on a hanger, and there’s his butt.

Good lord, help me. I’m weak.

“I love my sister, but I’m just not sure about these gold shirts. Sienna wanted me, you, and Matty to be distinctive, but.” He shakes his head and sighs.

“Gold shirts?” I hadn’t noticed anything in my own fitting room earlier.

Ricky’s broad back distracts me, the way his muscles move as he fumbles with the hanger. The entire room could be covered in gold leaf, and I wouldn’t notice.

Whipping the collarless Italian linen button-down around like a cape, he threads his arms through the sleeves, fluidly, effortlessly.

He fluffs the front before buttoning it up.

I study his reflection in the mirror in front of him.

Furrowed brows. Thick thumbs fumble with small buttons.

He looks up and into the mirror and runs his hands through his hair before turning back around and facing me.

He looks like a Roman god. “Thoughts?”

“Huh?”

“Gold shirt,” he reminds me.