It Should Happen To You

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Which brought in a whole new wave of emotions, which annoyed her even further. She looked back over her shoulder, noticed the Saturday-night smile. “Can you hurry it up?”

“Sorry,” was all he said, and they made it up the steps to the back of the chapel.

They had ended up at the church with about ten minutes to spare. Dominic drove a Honda, which seemed a little odd. She was expecting something bigger, something less fuel efficient. Not a Honda four-door that looked like it couldn’t hold golf clubs in the trunk, much less a body. But what did she know? If you cut off the head and legs, the human torso really wasn’t that long.

As they were rushed to some seats in the back, the sounds of the wedding march began, and everybody stood. It was a traditional Catholic wedding, striking up memories of Jessica’s recent nuptials. At least Jessica would be back in another week, although Mickey had pretty much decided to keep most everything to herself. It was one thing unloading her mistakes to Beth, who seemed to think the whole thing was a spectacular adventure, but it was another to admit weakness to Jessica, who would never, ever let her forget it.

The bride looked gorgeous, happy and content. Really content. Mickey wanted to holler out to her, “You’re marrying a wise guy. Is this what you’re reducing yourself to?” but wisely she held her tongue.

Stubbornly she looked around the chapel, looking anywhere but at Dominic. He looked good in his suit. Better than she wanted him to look. Mickey always prided herself on focusing on more than just the outer facade of the human appearance. A man’s mind was more important than a great set of abs. It was an edict that was easy to believe in when you were exposed to receding hairlines and physiques that were less than ideal. Confronted with such godlike physical attributes, it seemed shallow and a full-frontal betrayal of all her principles to be filled with lust.

Careful not to get caught, she gave him a quick onceover. Yeah, definitely lust. Black was his color. When contrasted with the dark line of his jacket, his hair shone without color at all. The truest black that swallowed up all the light around it.

And his mouth. This man had a mouth that should have been feminine. Should have made him look prissy. Instead, that mouth made her stop breathing. Wide, full, expressive lips. He was always moving them. Smiling, frowning, smirking. Like he knew about his effect on women. The cad.

He almost caught her ogling him, but she covered and concentrated on the stained-glass window just on the other side of him.

The church was packed with dark-haired men, perfectly coiffed women and screaming kids. Every now and then, one goombah type or another would nod in Dom’s direction. He’d send an answering nod, some sort of mob fraternity handshake.

Why couldn’t she be afraid of him? It was a mystery that she wasn’t going to solve right now, but as soon as she got home, she was going to sentence herself to six hours with Joe Pesci and GoodFellas.

Nothing like a little blood and gore to put the fear of God into a female.

Finally the ceremony was over, and she could concentrate on more important things, like walking in her heels.

The reception was a few blocks away and—of course—they walked. He made a point of putting her on the inside of the sidewalk. A nice touch, but she really needed more help with the walking.

The dress and the shoes were Cassandra’s. And while the dress was okay, the shoes were one size too small. She stumbled, and he grabbed her arm. It was only one touch. A polite, impersonal touch. But her body just responded with its own law of attraction. The force operating between two masses is equal to the two masses multiplied together, preferably in a carnal manner. Then the result was divided by the square of the too few inches between them. Lastly, the whole disaster was now multiplied by the Corlucci sexiness constant. Sadly, the constant was in triple digits.

For a moment she leaned in, using gravity as an excuse to get close. He looked into her eyes, and Mickey felt her flesh go even weaker.

“You doing okay?” he asked, as they entered the small hall, and suddenly they weren’t alone anymore. Mickey straightened, focused on the pain in her foot and condemned all males to perdition.

Yeah, that was easy, she thought to herself, ignoring the little snickering from the peanut gallery in her brain.

The reception hall was lit with candles and roses. Except for the one-hundred or so mafiosi, it would have been really romantic. Two weddings in less than two weeks. Her life was cursed. She shot a sideways look at Dom, looking sinfully delicious, and decided being cursed wasn’t without its rewards. He led her over to the bar and ordered two glasses of cabernet.