Monica And Simeoni

But the welcome table had already swallowed her question beneath another guest’s laughter and the soft rush of people entering the reception.

She moved toward the garden doors, heels clicking too loudly against the marble. Warm air rolled in from outside, fragrant with cut grass and orange blossoms. A string quartet played something elegant and dangerous, the kind of music that made everyone look as if they had secrets.

Monica had one simple goal: survive the evening without spilling wine, crying in a bathroom, or being remembered as the woman who paid to bring a stranger to a wedding.

Then she saw him.

Simeoni stood beside the entrance to the reception hall, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a champagne flute he had apparently forgotten to drink. He wore a dark suit without a tie, the collar open just enough to suggest confidence rather than carelessness. His gaze moved over the arriving guests, patient and amused, until it found Monica.

His attention landed with unsettling accuracy.

He looked at her ticket, then at her face.

“Table twelve?” he asked.

Monica glanced behind herself. “That obvious?”

“Only because I’m table twelve too.”

He lifted his glass in greeting. The gesture was small, almost lazy, but his mouth curved as though he had just been handed a private joke.

Monica approached because turning around would make this worse. “You’re Simeoni.”

“And you’re Monica.”

“You say that like you’ve been waiting.”

“I have been waiting.” He looked at the empty space beside him. “For approximately nine minutes. It gave me time to develop a personality.”

“Did it work?”

“Ask me after dinner.”

She tried not to smile and failed. Simeoni noticed. The satisfaction in his eyes was immediate, warm enough to make the lobby feel warmer.

A coordinator in a rose-colored dress appeared with two place cards. “Wonderful. You found each other.”

“We did,” Simeoni said.

The coordinator handed him one card and Monica the other. “You’ll sit together during the reception. Your realdate profile cards are on the table. There will be conversation prompts before dinner, and a few mingling activities afterward.”

“Conversation prompts,” Monica said.

Simeoni leaned closer. “If they ask us to share our most embarrassing childhood memory, I’m leaving through the kitchen.”

“Good. I’d hate to be abandoned before the bread arrives.”

The coordinator laughed, apparently mistaking their exchange for instant ease. “Enjoy yourselves. And remember, the realdate program includes a follow-up meet.”

Monica’s smile slipped. “It does?”

Simeoni looked at her then, and the playful shine in his face dimmed by half a shade.

The coordinator nodded. “One scheduled meeting after the wedding. It’s included with your ticket. You’ll receive the details tonight.”

“I wasn’t told that,” Monica said.

“It’s on the terms and conditions.”

“Of course it is.”

Simeoni touched the edge of his place card with one finger. “You can refuse it.”

The coordinator had already moved to greet another pair.

Monica stared at the card. Her name sat beside Simeoni’s in neat black lettering, as if the venue had decided they belonged in the same sentence.

“I’m not refusing anything,” she said.

“You sound like someone refusing something.”

“I’m trying to make it through one wedding without embarrassing myself.”

“Then you’ve chosen a risky strategy.”

“Which one?”

“Being seated next to me.”

He said it lightly, but his eyes stayed on hers. Monica felt the pull of that attention in places she preferred to keep under administrative control.

They entered the reception hall together.

Marigold Estates had transformed the old glass conservatory into a glowing garden. Tall candles floated in bowls of water. Gold leaves curled around the centerpieces. The air smelled of butter, roses, and the faint citrus bite of champagne. Guests drifted toward their tables, calling across the room, adjusting jackets, smoothing dresses.

Table twelve sat near the dance floor.

Public, Monica thought immediately.

Too public.

Simeoni pulled out her chair. “You look as though the table has insulted you.”

“It’s close to the dance floor.”

“That’s your objection?”

“I don’t dance with strangers.”

“We aren’t strangers anymore.”

They sat. Monica arranged her clutch on her lap, then rearranged it on the table, then wished she had brought something less obvious to do with her hands.

Simeoni noticed that too. “You can interrogate me if you like.”

“I don’t interrogate people.”

“You’re holding your clutch like evidence.”

“It’s a very suspicious clutch.”

“What has it done?”

“Nothing I can prove.”

His laugh was low and brief. It slipped beneath the quartet’s music and found her anyway.

A server poured champagne. Monica accepted hers, mostly to have something else to hold.

Simeoni lifted his glass. “To surviving.”

“To surviving what?”

“The prompts. The speeches. The relatives who ask when you’re next.”

“That last one is why I came with a date.”

“Ah.” He turned his glass between his fingers. “Practical.”

“Very.”

“Not romantic?”

Monica looked at him. “We met four minutes ago.”

“Some people work quickly.”

“Some people mistake confidence for charm.”

“Do you?”

“I’m still collecting evidence.”

His gaze dipped to her mouth, then returned. It was so quick she might have imagined it. The warmth that followed was not imaginary.

A bell rang. Conversation softened as guests turned toward the entrance, where the newly married couple appeared beneath an arch of white flowers. Monica clapped with everyone else, grateful for the interruption. Simeoni’s shoulder brushed hers when he stood. The contact lasted less than a second, but her body registered it like a message.

During the first speech, he leaned toward her.

“Do you know the couple?”

“Barely. The bride is my coworker’s cousin.”

“So you purchased a date for a wedding where you barely know anyone.”

“I purchased a ticket because my coworker said bringing someone would make the evening less awkward.”

“Has it?”

Monica kept her eyes on the bride, who was crying into a napkin. “It’s too early to tell.”

Simeoni’s mouth twitched. “You’re very careful.”

“I’m very observant.”

“Those aren’t the same thing.”

“No?”

“Observation watches the door. Carefulness decides whether to leave before anyone notices.”

The words landed softly, but they landed.

Monica turned toward him. His expression had changed again. Beneath the flirtation was something guarded, an awareness that made her wonder what he was watching for.

“And what are you doing?” she whispered.

“Trying to decide whether you’ll leave.”

The speech ended. Applause rose around them, giving her an excuse to look away.

Dinner arrived in shining plates: salmon, asparagus, potatoes slick with rosemary butter. Monica cut into hers with unnecessary precision. Simeoni ate as if he had not spent the last ten minutes studying the exits and her reactions.

“You’re not going to ask me anything?” he said.

“I thought you liked being interrogated.”

“I like knowing what I’m being accused of.”

“Fine. Why did you buy a realdate ticket?”

He set down his fork.

For the first time that evening, he did not answer immediately. Around them, chairs scraped and glasses chimed. Someone at the next table burst into laughter. Simeoni looked toward the dance floor, where the bride’s father had begun an enthusiastic, uncoordinated routine.

“Because I didn’t want to come alone,” he said at last.

Monica waited.

He glanced back. “That’s the honest answer.”

“It’s not much of one.”

“It’s more than most people give.”

Something in his voice made her put down her knife.

Simeoni folded his napkin once, carefully. “I’m tired of being the person everyone assumes is fine by himself. I’m good at showing up alone. I’m less good at admitting I’d rather not.”

The confession unsettled her more than a polished line would have. His face remained composed, but his thumb rubbed over the napkin’s edge until the fabric bent.

Monica lowered her voice. “I know that feeling.”

“Do you?”

“I’m excellent at looking occupied.” She touched her clutch. “A phone, a drink, a purse. Give me one object and I can avoid needing anyone for an entire evening.”

“Is that what you’re doing now?”

“No.”

The answer escaped before she could decorate it.

Simeoni’s eyes held hers. “Good.”

The word warmed her more than the champagne.

A server cleared their plates. Then the coordinator appeared again, carrying a small gold envelope.

“Time for the realdate pairing card,” she announced. “You’ll find your second-meet options inside.”

Monica accepted the envelope. It was heavier than paper had any right to be.

Simeoni leaned close enough that she felt his breath near her ear. “If it says miniature golf, I’m blaming you.”

“I didn’t design the program.”

“You bought the ticket.”

“I bought one ticket.”

“Then we’re already negotiating.”

She looked at him. “Are we?”

His gaze dropped to the envelope in her hand. “We could be.”

The coordinator moved away before Monica could answer. She slid one finger beneath the seal, but Simeoni stopped her with a gentle touch at her wrist.

“Wait.”

His fingers were warm. He released her as soon as she looked down, leaving the choice entirely with her.

“What?” she asked.

“Open it after the dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You said that already.”

“And yet you’re still asking.”

“I’m persistent.”

“You’re distracting.”

“That too.”

The band began to play. Couples gathered near the floor, some graceful, some brave. The newlyweds moved into the center beneath the lights.

Simeoni rose and offered his hand.

Monica stared at it. His palm was open, his expression teasing but not careless. No pressure. No performance for the tables watching them.

“If I step on you,” she said, “we’ll blame the venue.”

“If you step on me, I’ll consider it a memorable first impression.”

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll sit down and pretend I wasn’t hoping.”

There it was - the smallest fracture in his confidence, visible only because she had begun looking for it.

Monica placed her hand in his.

His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure. The room seemed to tilt toward the dance floor as he led her between the tables. She could feel people watching, or perhaps she could only feel herself being watched by him.

“I’m warning you,” she murmured.

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Neither do I.”

“You look like you do.”

“That’s the suit.”

She laughed, and he smiled down at her. They moved badly at first, then less badly. His hand settled at her waist, waiting until she nodded before drawing her closer. The contact was proper enough for a wedding and intimate enough to make every breath feel borrowed.

“Monica,” he said.

“What?”

“If you want me to stop, say so.”

The sincerity in it caught her off guard. She met his eyes. “I don’t want you to stop.”

His thumb shifted once against her waist.

The music carried them through the turn. His shoulder brushed her cheek. She smelled cedar, citrus, and the faint sweetness of champagne. When he looked down at her, the teasing had gone quiet.

For one reckless second, she imagined kissing him beneath the flowers while everyone applauded someone else’s marriage.

Then the song ended.

Applause broke around them. Simeoni did not move away immediately. Neither did Monica.

The gold envelope pressed against her clutch where she had tucked it during the dance.

“What happens after the wedding?” he asked.

“I assumed we go home.”

“That sounds disappointingly responsible.”

“I’m known for it.”

“Are you?”

She looked toward the doors, beyond which the night waited cool and dark. “I should be.”

Simeoni’s hand fell from her waist. The loss was immediate.

The coordinator returned with a smile that was much too informed. “Don’t forget your second meet. The system will send the scheduled time before midnight.”

Monica pulled the envelope from her clutch. “It’s mandatory?”

“Not mandatory,” the coordinator said. “But the ticket covers it, and your match has to confirm the cancellation if either of you declines.”

Simeoni’s gaze shifted to Monica.

A second meeting. A scheduled one. Another room where they would have to sit across from each other and decide whether this spark had been the champagne, the music, or something with a pulse of its own.

Monica opened the envelope.

Inside was a cream card stamped with the Marigold Estates seal.

SECOND MEET: TOMORROW, 10:00 A.M.

She looked up. Simeoni was watching her, no longer pretending this was only a game.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

Monica folded the card once. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t run.”

“I’m considering it.”

“And?”

She slipped the card back into the envelope. “I haven’t decided.”

His smile returned, slower this time, carrying less certainty and more want.

“Then I suppose,” Simeoni said, offering his hand again, “we have until tomorrow morning to keep making bad decisions.”

Monica looked at his hand, then at the crowded room, then at the door she had imagined escaping through since she arrived.

She took his hand.

“Only if you promise not to call them bad decisions.”

Simeoni’s fingers tightened around hers.

“I promise nothing,” he said, and led her back toward the lights.

End of chapter one. 39 more chapters and about 87,031 words in the full book.