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“Candidates?” She playfully pokes on a cock of her head. “Are they wedding ideas or potential employee recruits?”
Additional chuckles shake my entire frame.
“And why do we have an entire team? We’re only two people getting married not a pair of tunas moving from hunting grounds to spawning grounds.”
“The amount of aquatic knowledge that leaves your mouth on a daily basis is simply fascinating.”
“Way to sweet talk your woman into doing your homework,” Bryn theatrically states around the grabbing of my laptop.
“Our homework.” Getting the word search into a more comfortable angle is attached to providing her with the answer she’s seeking, “And Valora has an entire team because she believes in the ‘It Takes a Village’ mentality.”
“But like why do we have to be a part of that village?”
“Because it’s our wedding.”
“But-”
“Pick something,” precedes me pointing to the screen. “And do not just pick the first option on each one to finish faster.”
Her face slightly scrunches in mirth-filled frustration. “You don’t know me.”
“I do.” Another round of light laughs accompanies me winding an arm around the back of the couch behind her. “Which is why I also know that your fondness for blue isn’t simply limited to your eyeliner.”
“Did Marguerite remember to order that before she left to visit her cousin in Doctenn?”
“She did.” My finger slowly begins to trace letters downward. “And stocked our fridge with its weekly grocery order.”
Unlike at the estate where we have staff on hand around the clock, our life at the penthouse operates a little differently.
We are responsible for the day-to-day duties of making our bed, making our coffee, making sure not to leave out leftovers that then have the entire place riddled with a foul odor. Here we tend to indulge in a more self-sufficient lifestyle that I know Bryn appreciates. She may not love to cook – or be the best cook at that – but whenever we’re at the penthouse she at least has the option to try or experiment. And I never used to think twice about having someone bring me coffee but after four or five lost battles with our espresso machine, I couldn’t possibly be more grateful for those that go into the trenches for me each morning. With that said, we do still have specific staff – like Marguerite Allard – come to the penthouse for routine cleanings, maintenance, supply ordering, and the occasional Lucky hosted meal.
He was here last night along with Clark and Lauren and made Arroz con Gandules that Bryn threw up two hours later.
I know it wasn’t food poisoning because no one else experienced any other symptoms.
And after a two-a.m. call to Hamilton – I waited until she was fast asleep – I concluded it’s probably just a stomach bug she can’t seem to kick.
However, if another vomit spell like it happens again, she will allow him to examine her.
Non-negotiable.
The last thing we need is her having some deadly parasite inside of her that we repeatedly ignored.
I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her.
And I’d make sure anyone else who could’ve prevented her pain never experienced forgiveness either.
“Peach and plum and cranberry,” complains my fiancée loudly enough to warrant my gaze. “Are we picking colors or creating fruit salads?”
“Those wouldn’t pair well together in a fruit salad.”
She whips her head to face me yet lets her finger hover beside the screen. “Don’t make me click terracotta as a pallet choice and really turn this shit into a fruit medley.”
“You want us looking like Mr. and Mrs. Clayface?” It’s impossible not to smirk. “I’m all in.”
An unexpected pause appears before she challenges, “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” A second crooked grin grows. “Whatever you want for the day is yours as long as it ends with your last name becoming mine.”
