Dear lovers,

When planning your special day, you may find that you encounter mixed emotions. Perhaps a friend feels she’s been overlooked for a position in the bridal party. Maybe you and the groom-to-be don’t agree on the table decorations. One family member may be refusing to sit next to another family member, and that can be hard to resolve.

This can result in a lot of stress for you, and while a spa day and three mimosas are the obvious cure, not all of us have access to a personal masseuse or an understanding boss who’ll let us drink our way through the day.

My advice? Take the good with the bad. Remember that this day is about you, and you should live in the moment. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Consider instead sweating out any stresses between the sheets with the man or woman you are about to marry.

Love,

Romy

I hit Submit on the blog post, then roll my shoulders back and twist my neck from side to side. The door jingles. Emma. My best friend pushes her stroller through the near-empty café and over to my table, a smile on her face despite the lack of sleep I see lurking under her eyes.

“You know what I said to myself on the way here? I wonder what the chances are of finding Romy in the café ogling the hot barista. And surprise, surprise, here you are.”

I smile, standing to give her a kiss on the cheek, then prepare to lavish the little rugrat with all the kisses, but when I lift the canopy cover, he’s sleeping soundly. Awww. God, babies are just life. A tiny snore fills the stroller and sends my heart fluttering.

“Good to see you too. And it’s not like I spend all my time here.” Just the hours from nine to three. “You had a lucky guess.”

“I hope someone’s getting lucky.” Emma flops into the chair opposite me and shoots a look at Elio, who waves goodbye to the last of the morning rush. I roll my eyes.

“Keep it down, will you?” I ask, sinking back into my seat. “I think we both know that getting lucky with him is not in the cards.”

"Romy, when are you going to just grow some lady balls and ask him out?"

"I can't!" I protest.

"Why not?” She gives me her best “mom” face, and even though Isaac is only her first child, the woman’s scarier-than-thou expression is already on point. “Give me one good reason.”

"Well, firstly because if it doesn't work out, I'll have to move. You can't sleep practically on top of a man once you've slept under him," I point out.

"If it doesn't work out. If things don't go well." She pauses for dramatic effect. "But if it does, you get to have a booty-call guy who spends all day beneath you. Sounds pretty tempting to me."

"You don't understand. Elio is like . . ." I search the shop for inspiration, finally stopping on the delicate custard-filled pastry on the counter. "Elio is like one of those sfogliatella. He's perfect to look at, and to admire on the surface."

"But?"

"But I don't want to know the ugly truth underneath. I don't want to learn about his past, what his bad habits are, or why he's still single when he looks like that." I gesture to his ass—I mean, the man in question—as Elio bends to pick up a stray receipt from the floor. My gaze darts back to the pastry again before he can catch me staring. "I like sfogliatella. I just don't want to know how to make them, wash the dirty dishes afterward, or discover how many calories they really have and what they will do to my hips."

"That's it, huh?" Emma sighs.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

She shakes her head. "You're still afraid of getting hurt."

"Maybe a little. It's only been a year since Jeremy . . ." Just three hundred and sixty-nine days since I found my fiancé in bed with another woman.

"What he did was terrible, but you have to get over this fear, Romy. Embrace your new life. Go on a date."

"I've been on dates!"

"With men who are dreadful for you. You don’t have to marry the first man you have sex with after your ex. Go get naked with Mr. Hunky McBakerson over there and see where it leads," Emma says, and I widen my eyes, stifling my response with a long sip of my coffee.

“Can I get you ladies anything to drink? Eat?”

Shit! Coffee sprays from my mouth.

Elio laughs, stepping to the side of the table like some sort of stealthy jungle cat. A delicious stealthy jungle cat who I want to crawl under the table and hide from because oh my God. Did he just hear what Em said?

My friend pastes on a bright grin. “No, I’m fine, thank you. Just thought I’d drop by and say hi to Romy while Isaac and I were on our morning walk. I’m sure she could use some attention though. Isn’t that right, Ro?”

I kick her under the table, but to her credit, she doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Sorry, Romy. It’s been a little busy in here this morning.” Concern flashes over Elio’s features. “Need a refill?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.” I smile up at him, then shoot daggers back at Emma. “I was just about to finish up, and then we were going to head upstairs.”

“Actually, I think Isaac is waking.” Emma continues to smile brightly, gesturing to the stroller.

Her baby is sound asleep.

I’ve never seen a better impersonation of a log.

“So I’m going to head off and leave the two of you to it. Bye.” She gives us both a tinkling wave and practically sprints out of the café, leaving me feeling even more like a desperate idiot than usual.

“Sorry about that.” I make a face at Elio. “And for staying here all morning. Again.”

"Are you kidding? I love it when you're here."

Warmth spreads through my body. "You do?"

"Absolutely. In fact, before your friend came in, I was hoping I could interrupt your work for a moment to ask you a favor."

"Anything." I'm quick to reply, too quick, and I scold myself. Play it cool, Romy.

He glances around the empty shop, left, right, then left again, before lowering his voice as if he's about to reveal his deepest, darkest secret. "I've been working on a new recipe. It's a modern twist on an Italian lemon cake."

"You're breaking tradition?" I gasp in horror, clutching at my chest. "But what would your nonna say?"

“How did you know I have a nonna?” he asks, his head to the side.

“You’re Italian, and you know how to bake.” I raise my eyebrows. “Of course you have a nonna.”

He laughs. “You’re right, I do, and if she knew about my plans, she would be horrified. I’m trying to make the menu more modern. A little . . . sexier.” A dark glint enters his eyes. Desire arcs through me, warming my already heated flesh. “That’s why I need a reliable taste tester. Someone without bias. And, as a professional muffin critic, I thought you would be the perfect candidate."

"It's not just muffins. I also love your buns."

What did I just say?

Oh Lord, no. Did I . . .?

I glance up at Elio's dark eyes. They dance with laughter. "You like my buns?"

"Yes," I squeak. "Your cream buns. Not your . . . your—"

"Well, I didn’t think you meant the other kind." He turns and walks around the counter, picking up a clean dish towel and flinging it over his shoulder before glancing back at me. "Now, come on. Are you going to help me or not?"

Hmm. Decisions, decisions.

Should I race into a deserted room with my hot coffee guy to taste his buns—I mean, baked goods?

Abso-damn-lutely.