Page 104 of Bound To Be Mine

I nodded slowly. I was absolutely disappointed, but I wasn’t going to put that on her. She had a life back there.

“What time?” I said.

Something moved in her face. Relief, maybe, that I hadn’t turned it into an argument. “Early. Seven. Cleo is letting me take the plane back. Thankfully it’s still here in New York.”

I nodded, understanding our time together was a lot shorter than I thought.

“Then it’s all the more reason to enjoy tonight,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be. This is not your fault. You have work. I get it.”

“Set the table,” she said. “It’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

I did as I was told while doing my best not to look like someone who just got their puppy kicked.

We sat across from each other at the kitchen table. The smell from the meal was incredible. And it looked even better. I took a bite.

“Mandy, damn, this is good.”

“It’s just pot roast.”

“Every time I’ve made pot roast in the crock pot it comes out like shoe leather.”

She pointed her fork at me. “Crock pots are foolproof.”

“Apparently not.”

“They are. The fool in that scenario is the variable.”

I looked at her. “Careful. I’d hate to have to have a cook-off with you.”

“Oh, I think you’d win hands down,” she said with a smile.

“So, what crisis awaits you in LA?” I asked.

She made a sound that was not quite a sigh. “A groomzilla.”

“Is that worse than a bridezilla?”

“Significantly. Women planning their weddings have strong opinions because they’ve been thinking about their special day for twenty plus years. They know the territory. They’ve thought about it. Their opinions are at least coherent.” She twirled her fork. “A groomzilla is a man who has not thought about any of it for his entire life and has now, with approximately three weeks until his wedding, decided he has thoughts and feelings about every single element. A big man means big feelings. None of them account for the decisions that were made in the previous eight months.”

“What’s the specific grievance?”

“The cake.” She leveled her gaze at me. “Have you ever seen a full-grown man cry because his wedding cake isn’t chocolatey enough?”

I considered this. “I have not.”

“I have. Last Tuesday. On a video call. Tears, Briggs. Real ones.”

“How chocolatey does he want it?”

“That’s what I asked. He said, and I’m quoting, more than this.” She put her fork down. “He tasted the sample once. He hadn’t told anyone he wanted it more chocolatey. He hadn’t mentioned chocolate at any point in the planning process. He just felt, upon the tasting, that more chocolate was required and that the correct response to this feeling was to cry.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him I would handle it.” She picked her fork back up. “Which I will. I’ll add a chocolate ganache layer and do a drizzle and have the baker do a second tasting next week and he’ll declare it perfect because it will taste like a chocolate bar had a child with a wedding cake.” She paused. “And then something else will happen. There’s always something else.”