We both stare at each other, the what the fuck written all over our faces.
“Do you want to be married?” Mr. Bloom asks.
The question blindsides me.
Do I?
Yes, my traitorous brain answers, clearly swept up in the moment and chugging the Kool-Aid.
Harrison toys with the ring on his finger, studying me. Like he’s waiting for me to say it first. To soften the blow.
Before either of us can answer, Snooki barrels into the kitchen in a cloud of pink tulle. She wraps herself around my waist, arms tight.
“Hungry,” she says playfully.
“I know, baby,” I murmur, rolling up a tortilla and handing it to her.
My eyes never leave Harrison.
His gaze flicks from me, then softens when it lands on Snooki. There’s no way we’re having this conversation in front of her.
“We’ll talk about this later, Henry,” he says into the phone.
“I’m here when you need me,” Mr. Bloom replies, his tone warm and grandfatherly.
The line disconnects.
Harrison scoops Snooki into his arms as she giggles, then looks at me. “Travis is probably headed this way. How long do you need?”
He’s already explained that his boss wants to see us. Or rather, the kids’ uncle. And judging by the level of prep happening in the next room, it might be a surprise party. To the happy couple.
I can’t embarrass him in front of his family.
“I should probably let the glam team get their hands on me,” I say, handing him a few rolled-up tortillas for him and the boys. I know they’re not supposed to eat, but a tortilla won’t kill them. “Can I have thirty minutes?”
He nods. “Take all the time you need.”
He kisses my cheek, and I try not to read too much into it.
Because I have a feeling our conversation with Mr. Bloom isn’t over.
CHAPTER 47
Ava
The drive is long.
The kids are being extra careful not to wrinkle their clothes, even as they all battle for space on the seat.
Harrison stares out the window like the city might explain itself if he looks hard enough. I watch as he keeps fiddling with the ring. The one he won’t take off.
Stop it.
“Do you like my dress, Daddy?” Snooki asks, fluffing her skirt. The book bag I made her is still slung over her shoulder, and I’d bet ten bucks there’s a tortilla hiding inside it.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
Connor presses the little button, and the sunroof slides shut, the panel sealing back into place. He’s done this a million times.
