She huffed. “I was super wet last night, but then you just ran off.”
“You make me sound like a scared teenage boy.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “Besides, I didn’t just run off. Your pony followed me outside of the courtyard. I tried to shoo him back inside, but he just took off, sprinting down the street, and I had to run after him. I found him at a pretzel cart.”
“Did you buy him one?” she asked, horrified.
“I didn’t give him one, but the pretzel guy did. Baxter had it half eaten by the time I found him. Then the pretzel guy made me pay him.”
“That little shit.”
“The pretzel guy?”
“My horse!” she exclaimed. “I bought him a pretzel this morning because I felt guilty.”
“I don’t feel guilty,” I purred. “And I assure you I have every intention of continuing what we started.”
“No, what you refused to finish.”
“Your couch is disgusting,” I said flatly.
“You’re so high maintenance,” Amy joked. “I totally would have let you doggie-style it on the couch. Sex is supposed to be messy.”
“We would have scared your poor horse and all your houseplants,” I countered.
“A little performance anxiety?” she teased.
I grabbed her chin.
“Trust me. I’m a CEO of a multibillion-dollar company. I don’t suffer from performance anxiety.”
Her eyes widened slightly then narrowed, and she reached out to slide a hand up my leg to palm me through my pants. “You want to show me now?”
I kissed her hard. “I would, but we have a reservation,” I said as the driver pulled to a stop in front of the restaurant.
“We’ve done tons of weddings here, but I haven’t gotten to eat here!” Amy said happily when we walked into the Porter. “The view is amazing.”
“When I was a kid,” I said, “my parents went off on trips or conferences and left me with the eccentric upstairs neighbor. She always brought me here, and we sat at this one particular table and watched the horses and people go by. It’s one of my favorite spots in Manhattan.”
Amy grabbed my hand and stood up on her toes to kiss my cheek.
A moment later, the hostess took us upstairs to our table. The high ceilings, crisscrossed with heavy timber beams, were lit by twinkling chandeliers.
“It’s nice to be here when I’m not being screamed at by a bridezilla,” Amy said happily, looking at the menu.
“People scream at you?” I frowned.
“Oh, you have no idea! The last time I was here for a wedding, everything was going well. The ceremony out in the park was beautiful, we had cocktail hour in the courtyard, and then everyone paraded in here for the dinner. Right after the bride and groom made their big entrance and had their first dance, they made a thank-you toast to everyone. I’m thinking, ‘Awesome, we made it through another wedding.’ But then the bride’s cousin ran up, grabbed the microphone from the DJ, and announced to everyone in the audience that the IVF doctor’s office had just called her and told her she was pregnant.”
“No way!”
“People congratulated her and practically ignored the bride. She was furious! I felt so bad for her. I usually leave after the photos. I only stayed to make any last-minute flower adjustments. But the bride ran off, and one of the bridesmaids was about to start a fight with the bride’s cousin, so I had to go after her. I tried to be nice, but she just turned on me, screaming that it was my fault and that I should have known, and now her wedding was ruined. She threw a full-blown tantrum and refused to come out of the bridal suite. I had to bring her a plate of food and some cake to make her calm down.”
“Good god,” I said after a moment.
“No drama like wedding drama!” Amy quipped.
The waiter took our order, and Amy took a sip of her water. Her foot came up to run along my thigh. It felt familiar and intimate.
“But you’ve planned a wedding in your day,” she said.
