Then he looked up at her and froze, taking in the sight of her freshly showered. His eyes sparked with appreciation before he blinked it away and turned back to his preparations.
Ani pretended not to notice, leaning casually against the cool counter. “Turkey sounds good to me, unless the vegetarian happens to have a big slab of mozzarella? Can’t say no to that.”
Raffi’s smile grew. “It’s your lucky day. The veggie special today was mozzarella pesto. Kind of jealous, to be honest. I should have gotten two of them.”
“We can switch.”
Raffi scoffed. “You kidding me? Miss Wedding Planner, my guest, gets what she wants. Whatever she wants.”
Crimson crept to her cheeks.Whatever she wants.He was a spoiler, my God, and she liked it.
“Speaking of,” he said. Then he gestured toward the TV in the other room. On the screen was the opening frame ofThe Wedding Planner.
“All queued up and ready to go.”
She closed her eyes a second longer than a blink to take it in. “This is really sweet, Raffi. I just want you to know…I appreciate it.”
He did the thing where he paused again, his hands stilling on the counter, as if needing a moment to soak up her words. Then he said, “After the morning you had, I figure it’s the least I can do.”
He shifted his weight, reaching for a bottle on the counter and running his thumb along the label in an absent motion. “Wine? Or is it too early?”
Ani didn’t drink much, but somehow, a glass of cold wine sounded lovely at the moment.
“Only if it’s Ô,” she said. “The rest of the stuff in Napa is trash.” She couldn’t even say that without breaking, and her smile caught on Raffi’s face, too.
“One sauv blanc, coming right up.”
Raffi poured for both of them, then brought the plates and drinks to the coffee table in front of the TV. Ani followed his lead, taking a seat on the beige couch. The cushions rose around her, pulling her in with a slow give. The whole scene felt strangely domestic—easy in a way that made her stomach tighten.
He flipped on the movie, and Ani took a long sip of her wine. Cool and refreshing, with a little fruitiness that lingered on her tongue. Ô really did have something special here. She took a renewed interest in helping out Raffi with his marketing. It was funny, she wasn’t so great at marketing herself, but touting someone else’s product came much easier to her.
The opening credits rolled and the familiar music ofup-tempo early 2000s soft pop began as Ani took her first bite of the sandwich. The flavors hit all at once, and she had to voice it. “What the hell is in this?”
Raffi sat up straight, alarmed. “What? Is there something wrong? An allergen? A fingernail?”
Ani laughed. “I meant ‘what the hell’ in a good way. Is this God’s pesto? I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
He put out his hand. “Okay, you can’t call it ‘God’s pesto’ and not give me a taste.”
She raised the sandwich toward his mouth, pushing into inappropriate territory. “Be my guest.”
She was feeding Raffi Garabedian a mozzarella sandwich.
She watched as his teeth sank into the bread, and she had several impure thoughts about what else she’d like those teeth grazing against.
Then he moaned, which only intensified her visions of his mouth against her. After a couple of chews, he said, “Damn, I’ve got to order this next time.”
Ani concentrated on slowing her breathing and distracted herself by watching the little-kid version of J.Lo carefully arranging Barbies on the screen.
When the camera panned to the little girl holding up the bride and groom dolls, Raffi pointed to the TV and said, “Hey, that’s you!”
Ani shrugged, but she couldn’t help the way her smile grew. “Honestly, not too far off.”
They ate and watched, and Ani relished how much Raffi was getting into the film. She had it memorized, too, and enjoyed overreacting to the big moments and character introductions.
Then, in the scene where J.Lo and Matthew McConaughey met at a San Francisco outdoor movie and the mood was quiet and romantic, Ani felt her eyes growing heavy. They closed once, then fluttered open as the couple on-screen shed their jackets. Raffi murmured, “You know this is fiction because no one would willingly remove their outer layers in Golden Gate Park. Can’t even look at them without a secondhand shiver.”
“Mm-hmm,” she agreed, her voice soft with drowsiness. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she instinctively leaned into the nearest source of warmth—solid, steady, and impossibly comfortable.
