The Bachelor Takes a Bride. Brenda Harlen

have a fifty percent chance of being right.”

      “She predicted that both Adrianna and Isabella would be girls,” Gemma reminded him. “And that Christian and Dominic would be boys.”

      “She also predicted that you and Tony would have half a dozen babies.”

      His sister-in-law laughed. “Well, I can promise you that’s not happening.”

      “But speaking of Nonna’s predictions,” Marco said, “did you notice the woman who walked out that door?”

      “Lots of women walk out that door. And sometimes they come in. Sometimes men, too.”

      He rolled his eyes. “I was referring to the last customer who left with a pizza box in her hands.”

      “You mean Jordyn Garrett?”

      “You know her?”

      “Yeah—she’s Rachel’s husband’s cousin.”

      Rachel Ellis—now Garrett—had been a friend of Gemma’s since high school, and Rachel and her husband, Andrew, were regular customers at Valentino’s, along with Maura, Andrew’s daughter from his first marriage. The previous November, they’d added another daughter, Lily, to their family.

      “What else do you know about her?” he asked.

      “I know that she left her phone on the counter,” Gemma said, glancing at the slim case on the ledge in front of the cash register.

      “How do you know it’s hers?”

      “Because I saw her set it down when she got out her wallet to pay for the pizza.”

      The device hummed quietly, a light in the corner blinking.

      “Maybe you should answer that,” she suggested.

      “Why me?”

      “Because I’m going to the kitchen to get the tiramisu for Nata.”

      “Throw in a couple of cannoli for the girls,” he suggested.

      “Of course,” she agreed, already moving past the pizza ovens and slipping through the door to the main kitchen.

      Leaving him alone with Jordyn’s phone and its blinking light.

      He touched the screen, expecting to see a password request, which would, of course, prevent him from accessing anything on her phone. But there was no password protection—the screen immediately illuminated to reveal the recent communication to the phone’s owner—assumed to be Jordyn—from someone identified at the top of the screen as Tristyn.

      12 med wings would go good with the pizza and wine :)

      He stepped behind the counter and peeked through the window into the take-out kitchen.

      “Hey, Rafe—how long would it take for a dozen wings?”

      “Ten minutes,” his cousin said, already with tongs in hand to count them out and toss them into the fryer basket. “You want ’em extra hot?”

      “Medium,” he said. He figured it wouldn’t take Jordyn long to realize she’d left her phone behind, and when she came back for it, hopefully the wings would be ready for her.

      “Your taste buds getting soft in your old age?” Rafe teased, dropping the basket into the hot oil.

      “They’re not for me.”

      He returned his attention to her phone—feeling a little like the prince left at the ball with no clue to Cinderella’s identity except a single glass slipper. The phone wasn’t nearly as sexy as a shoe, but at least it was something.

      The bell over the door rang and he glanced up to greet the new customer, but the words died in his throat when she walked in. Obviously it had taken less time than he’d anticipated for Jordyn to realize she’d left her phone—the phone that was currently in his hand.

      In the bright light of the take-out area, he could see her clearly now: smooth, creamy skin; a delicate heart-shaped face; and short, dark hair dripping with rain. Her eyes were dark green and framed by thick, long lashes.

      He’d thought the dress she wore was black, but he could see now that it was a deep shade of purple. But he’d been right about her curves—the sleeveless sheath style hugged her feminine shape in all the right places. The wedge heels on her feet made it difficult to accurately estimate her height, but he guessed that she was about five feet five inches tall.

      Her fingernails were neatly trimmed and unpolished, her makeup subtle. Earrings dangled from her ears, colorful purple and silver beads on different lengths of chain jingled as she moved, suggesting a playful side that contrasted with the simple dress and no-fuss hairstyle.

      She was simply and spectacularly beautiful, and in that moment, the possibility that had been teasing the back of his mind—and nudging at his heart—since that first quick glimpse through the rain became a certainty.

      “Nonna’s going to love hearing that she was right.”

      Neatly arched brows drew together. “I beg your pardon?”

      He shook his head. “Sorry. My mind was wandering.”

      “A wandering mind and sticky fingers,” she noted.

      “Huh?”

      She gestured to the phone in his hand. “That’s mine.”

      “Oh. You left it on the counter.”

      “Apparently.”

      He held it out to her.

      When she reached for it, her fingertips brushed against his—and he felt it again, an arrow of heat straight through his heart. She snatched her hand away quickly, making him suspect that she’d felt the same thing—or at least something.

      “That’s it?” she said. “No explanation for reading my text messages? No apology?”

      “You left the phone on the counter—I was only trying to figure out who it belonged it to.”

      “Me,” she said again.

      “And you are?”

      “Hoping to get home before my pizza’s cold.” And with that, she turned away.

      “Wings up,” Rafe said, setting the take-out container on the ledge.

      “Wait,” Marco called out to her.

      She paused at the door.

      “You forgot your wings.”

      “I didn’t order any wings.”

      “There was a message on your phone—from Tristyn. A dozen medium.”

      She scrolled through the text conversation on her phone, frowned. He offered her the foam container.

      “I didn’t pay for those.”

      “Consider them an apology for reading your message.”

      “You wouldn’t have to apologize if you hadn’t read my message,” she pointed out.

      “And you’d be going home without the wings,” he countered.

      She took the container from him, making sure that there was no contact between them in the transfer. “Thank you.”

      “Marco,” he told her. “Marco Palermo.”

      “Thank you, Marco.”

      He smiled. “You’re welcome...”

      “Jordyn,” she finally said, confirming the identification his sister-in-law had made as she moved toward the door.

      He reached the handle before she did, pushed it open for her. “Enjoy your pizza and wings, Jordyn.”

      “We always do,” she assured him.

      He