Lina: K, great. The ceremony will be starting soon. The groom should be on his way, then Jaslene will come get the bride. Is everyone all set up there?

Me: think so. might want to check with Natalia to be sure

She texts a thumbs-up emoji.

Before I can respond in kind, a person slams into me, and I drop to the ground like I’ve been KO’d in a championship bout. Figures. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s falling on my ass with verve and panache.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” a husky voice says above my head.

I blink a couple of times and open my eyes. Whoa. The white man leaning over me isn’t your average Joe. Nor your average anything. On the contrary, he’s off-the-charts handsome—so much so that I imagine his facial features competing daily for the title of best body part.

“You’re no match for me,” his plump lips say to his strong jaw.

“The hell I’m not,” his jaw retorts. “Everyone knows I’m fucking irresistible when the big guy strokes me.”

“Pipe down, you two,” his hazel eyes tell them. “When we gaze at a woman for longer than three seconds, she’s a goner. Try to top that.”

There’s a tiny patch of scarred skin above his left eyebrow. It’s the money shot (the basketball kind, that is), and it adds a hint of mystery to his impeccable appearance.

“People dig me the most, though,” the scar boasts in a seductive tone. “Because it suggests he spends his days poring over spreadsheets and his nights kicking ass in a dingy boxing gym.”

“You’re all great,” I say.

Out. Loud.

A touch of pink on the apples of the man’s cheeks tells me he’s noticed my blatant perusal. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”

Not-your-average-Joe smothers a laugh and clears his throat, then offers his hand. “Here, let me help you up.”

I take it and allow him to pull me to standing. Jesus, he’s tall. The man eclipses me by at least five inches, and I’m taller than the average woman. And now that I have my bearings, I notice the black tuxedo and dirty-blond hair: This is the person Lina gestured to when I asked her to point out the groom.

“I apologize,” he says, the flush creeping up his cheeks deepening a shade. “I’m a bit distracted today.”

“You’re the groom,” I say.

“Yep,” he says, nodding.

“Dean.”

My mastery of obvious facts is breathtaking. Truly.

“Two for two.” He gives his head a quick shake. “Should I know you?”

“I’m Solange. Lina’s cousin.”

He smiles, his eyes brightening in friendly recognition. “Right, right. You’re the youngest.”

“Only by two years,” I say a tad defensively. “But to my older cousins, I’m still walking around in diapers.”