Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“That might be an understatement. There was egg and shell and goop everywhere,” I say, miming an explosion. “That shit was in the cabinets, all over the floor, on my T-shirt, and in my hair. It was everywhere.”
“Sounds to me like just another excuse for not wearing a shirt.”
“Do you know how hard it is to clean up cracked eggs?”
“Yes. Everyone over the age of five knows how messy a cracked egg is.” She begins to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“The fact that you only found that out today,” she says, sliding those awful fucking sunglasses from her head. Folding them, she places them on the table. Next time I’ll find a better hiding place than behind a throw pillow. Maybe she’ll let me take her to buy new ones sometime in the not-too-distant future. Maybe we could take in an afternoon of shopping in Covent Garden. Or better still, spend a weekend in Paris. We could take a stroll through Saint-Germain-des-Prés, book one or two private boutique appointments, where I could spoil her a little. Mila could try on some clothes, maybe even a little lingerie, while I sit back and drink champagne.
I’ll shower her with gifts, if only to let her throw them back at me.
“Now I’m going to turn that question back at you,” she says, reaching for her glass of juice. “What’s making you happy?”
“That’s easy. You.” And the way you’d react if I told you I was thinking of showing you the world. Making you my world.
“So, tell me, if you don’t cook, how do you eat? My guess is you don’t subsist on toast and noodles.”
“I like toast, and I like noodles,” I say, shoving a lump of bacon into my mouth. It’s cold yet still crispy and delicious.
“But do you make them yourself, or do you have a chef?”
Because that didn’t sound like an accusation.
“Don’t be embarrassed. You can say!”
“He’s part time,” I admit. No need to mention the rest of the crew. The housekeeper, the groundskeeper, and the gardening teams at my place in Florence. The cleaning service, my personal assistant, my personal shopper, and so on.
“And the rest of the time?”
“Eat out, I guess.”
She frowns, but it doesn’t last. “Well, thank you for going to the trouble to cook for me. I appreciate it.”
Sunshine fills my chest. And more bacon fills my mouth. “Can’t fault my enthusiasm,” I say around it.
“Ten out of ten for effort.”
“You know I always try my best,” I kind of drawl, unable to help myself.
“Do you remember when you said you were always a groomsman and never a groom?”
“I kinda tempted fate with that one, didn’t I?” I offer happily.
“Why do you say yes?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious. “To being a groomsman so often? Do you just really like wedding cake?” The latter she adds flippantly.
I’m such a good groomsman, I’d be an asset to her business. I almost said as much when she was soaking in the tub. And not for my experience either. Married to me, her profile would hit all the news channels. But that would be a worry in itself right now. So I kept it to myself.
“Sometimes it’s just good for business,” I admit instead. “A big part of my job is building relationships. I get to know our clients pretty well. I’ve even been instrumental in getting one or two of them together. When they ask me to take part in their wedding plans, I feel like I can’t say no.”
“So, they become your friends?”
I give my head a shake. “More like acquaintances. My friends are Oliver and Matt, and Evie. And, of course, my beautiful new wife.”
“Don’t,” she says softly.
“It’s what you are,” I remind her just as softly.
“I thought we were making do with friends.”
“And I thought you said I’d be bad for your blood pressure. When, clearly, I’m so good for it.”
“How’d you make that out?”
“All those feel-good endorphins I induce.” I give a playful leer.
“And all the cortisol and stress hormones you induce the rest of the time.”
“You know what the answer to that is. More sex.”
“You’re sure sex isn’t why you like being a groomsman?” Her words are lighthearted, but I feel the barb in them. “Weddings are a hotbed of hookups—not that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, it’s bound to happen, isn’t it? The combination of so many single people all in one space, flowing wine, champagne, and pheromones. There’s love in the air and lust—not murder—on the dance floor as the single ladies congregate and get their flirt on. Honestly,” she adds, sliding her hair behind her ears, “David Attenborough should narrate a documentary about the mating rituals demonstrated at weddings.”
“I guess the reason I like weddings is that I like seeing people happy. Being in love.”
“Even when love isn’t something you’re looking for, yourself.”