Page 2 of Love Him Like Water

Perhaps a soon-to-be husband should know which flowers his wife-to-be might be allergic to.

But of course Renzo didn’t know.

Because Renzo Lombardi didn’t know me at all.

As the organ trilled the beginning of The Bridal March, though, it was too late to turn back to grab them.

Instead, I clasped my hands together in front of me.

And took a step into the archway.

In the dimly lit grandeur of the gilded cathedral, where shadows danced like whispered secrets, silent objections hung heavy in the air, making a slight tremble start in my hands, then begin to work upward.

A sea of black suits and dresses flanked each side of the aisle, looking more like a funeral than a wedding.

No one stood to marvel at the bride.

No one dabbed their eyes or offered me smiles.

My heart beat louder than the organ that echoed the hallowed halls as I forced my wobbly legs to press forward, to make progress toward the altar.

Where my groom was waiting for me.

Unlike the men on my side of the aisle who seemed to wear their suits like second skins, Renzo Lombardi looked stiff and uncomfortable.

He looked like a dream, though, and some part of me was sure that when he finally turned to look at me, he would see his mistake, call off the wedding, and find someone who matched his stunning good looks.

Renzo was tall and fit with dark hair and eyes so deep they were almost black, framed with thick lashes, in a face full of sharp, classically handsome angles.

He had a face that may have looked too perfect, if not for the violent slash of scars that cut through his lip and brow, giving him an intimidating, dangerous look.

Not that he needed that.

He was an intimidating and dangerous man.

And here I was, about to belong to him.

I thought he might never turn to face me as I passed row after row of my family, their faces grim, their postures tight.

But then, suddenly, his focus shifted.

And his dark gaze landed on me.

My step faltered as my belly flipped, and I had to force my next step forward, then the other after that, as his focus stayed on me.

I wished I could read him, that I could know what he was thinking when he finally set his eyes on his bride. A woman whose voice he wasn’t familiar with, whose personality he knew nothing about.

Did he find me adequate or wanting?

His features were blank, his inner thoughts impenetrable as I ascended the two steps to the altar.

The tremble that had started in my hands had worked itself through my entire body, leaving me vibrating as the two of us turned instinctively to face the priest when he began his speech about the sanctity of marriage.

He didn’t wax poetic about love and joy.

Perhaps he knew this was not a marriage of souls.

But a union of families.