“Don’t remind me.”
“We need to celebrate.”
“We’re celebrating right now. With chicken and dumplings.”
“That’s not a celebration. That’s just Tuesday.” He leans against the counter, eyes gleaming with dangerous ideas. “We need to do something big. Something memorable.”
“No.”
“I haven’t even said what yet.”
“Still no.”
“What about a club takeover? I know a place on the Strip. We could rent out the VIP section—”
“I’m pregnant and Anton’s in Russia. Hard pass.”
“Fine. Skydiving?”
“I’m PREGNANT.”
“Right. Okay. Yacht party?”
“We’re in Las Vegas. There are no yachts.”
“Lake Mead has boats.”
“Jasper.”
“Flash mob? I could choreograph something. Get some backup dancers—”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m realistic.”
He sighs dramatically. “Fine. No parties. No adventures. But—” He points at me. “I’m dressing you up. Non-negotiable.”
“Jas—”
“Non. Negotiable.” He’s using his designer voice. The one that brooks no argument. “You’re turning thirty. You’re pregnant. Your boyfriend’s coming home from a murder mission. This is a MOMENT. And you’re not spending it in a T-shirt and leggings.”
“His T-shirt,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not.”
Grandma’s smiling into her dough. Ruth’s trying not to laugh.
“I get to pick the outfit,” Jasper continues. “Hair. Makeup. Everything.”
“I’m not doing makeup.”
“You’re doing light makeup.”
“No makeup.”
“Tinted moisturizer and mascara. Final offer.”
