For both of us, our wedding was sudden, and I felt we needed a bit of time apart to process and adjust, namely accept we’re a married couple.
Since she’s the Italian Mafia princess, used to luxury and people doing her bidding, I wonder if she found the house, the grounds, and my staff pleasing.
I check the time. Around seven in the morning. I move on to checking my emails, and because many of them are follow-ups that don’t require much thought, my mind scrolls through them while I’m actively thinking about eight o’clock and what the fuck I’m supposed to do with my wife.
She’s half my age.
We have nothing in common.
And I’m leaving for another trip tomorrow, a weeklong conference where I’ll network with other business owners and not actually attend for the wisdom of the conference. Most of us don’t.
Maybe I’ll have breakfast at home today.
Oh. I stop browsing my email. Good idea. Maybe my wife and I can eat breakfast together. One of us is gonna have to cook it. She’ll be sorry if it’s me. I’ve not touched a pan or a spatula since I was eleven, when Mom left for a dentist appointment while my two younger brothers stared at me over an empty table. I tried feeding them cereal, but they wanted eggs, and I didn’t have it in me to argue with a pair of whiny andhangrytwin boys.
Hmm. Maybe my wife and I can go out for breakfast. Is there any business I can finish over breakfast? I check my emails.There’s one. A potential offer for a business I want to buy, repair, and then resell for at least ten times the original price.
I dial Bishop, one of my two brothers, who deals with acquisitions.
His face pops up on the screen, one eye open, the other still trying to unglue its eyelid.
“Rise and shine,” I announce.
“It’s six.”
“Seven. Listen, I’m gonna take over the seller I handed you last month.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Bishop is much more laid-back and easier to deal with than his twin, my other brother, Blake who hates any change of plans.
“How’s married life?” Bishop asks.
I wouldn’t know. “Good.”
“And the dog?”
I blink.
Bishop chuckles and scrubs his face. “You do know you have a dog now, right?”
“Fuck.”
Bishop shakes his head. “In the weeks you’ve been gone, have you called home?”
“Whatever for?”
“To ask your wife how she’s doing.”
“Gerald reports on the house daily, so I know she’s fine.”
“Hudson, she’s not your staff.”
I don’t need marriage advice from a bachelor. “Arrange a nine o’ clock at Sunrise with the seller.”
“Call your secretary.”
I lean in. “What’s your problem with me, Bishop?”
