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“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Finally picking up one of the milk chocolate truffles, I add, “Bippi boppiti boo that twat into a lawn table.”
“Did you remember to get your last shot?”
“Of course I did!” Chomping down on the candy precedes me snipping. “It’s routine. Hair. Nails. Wax. Shot.” Another bite of the treat is taken. “I never miss any of those appointments.”
“Right, but you do reschedule them.”
Her accusation slows my chewing.
“And since you started working at The Institute, you’ve done a lot of rescheduling.” Mom retrieves another wrapped item to resume her unloading. “Are you a hundred and ten percent sure you received or rescheduled and then received your birth control shot?”
“I’m not even a hundred and ten percent sure I brushed my fucking teeth today.”
At that, she snickers, shakes her head, and starts to peel away the paper. “I’m not taking your ass to the dentist because you have eighteen cavities from covering your teeth in chocolate instead of toothpaste.”
“You gave me the chocolate!”
“And I gave you the skills to brush your fucking teeth.”
Laughter bounces my entire body as I finish the last bite.
“Seriously, Bryn,” Mom sighs prior to finding my stare once more, “go ahead and check your schedule. We both know the last thing you need right now are any big, unexpected surprises.”
Chapter 7
Wes
I click the middle option under the picture at the same time I good-naturedly chastise, “You are aware you can help, correct?”
Bryn adjusts her aquamarine “Jaws Ready to Party” tank top prior to shifting the word search in her lap around to circle a found word. “I am helping.”
“With this.”
“With that.”
Amusement dances through my gaze that’s relocating to the woman sitting on our penthouse couch beside me. “Explain, Brynley.”
“Say please, Weston.”
One extended sweatpants covered leg crosses over the other alongside a chortled, “Please.”
“Letting you pick all the answers on our wedding test-”
“It’s not a test.”
“-not only guarantees that we’ll pass-”
“It’s not a test.”
“-it also secures us a good grade.”
Laughter can’t be kept out of my voice during my repeating, “It’s not a test.”
“Feels like a test,” the future Mrs. Wilcox huffs prior to passing over the booklet. “Why else are there so many fucking multiple-choice questions?”
“To help our wedding design team only pitch ideas that can be considered as true candidates.”
