Franki moves to the cuddle puddle of kittens, selects a little white ball of fur and deposits it in his lap. “Pet a kitty. You’ll feel better.”
Elliot glances up at her. I see the exact moment he considers making a sexual innuendo.
“My wife,” I drawl.
He gulps. “Thank you, Dr. McRae.”
Franki uses her cane to walk to the second armchair and drop into it, waving her hand. “Call me Franki. I only made you call me Dr. because you were such a prat.”
“I’m not a prat now?” he asks hopefully.
“You’re improving. You didn’t try to blame anyone else for what you’d done and came to us for help, even when you were intimidated. That was brave.” Franki nods at Elliot with a maternal look. He sags into the chair in evident relief and pets the cat.
I open my laptop on the small corner desk and find the files I need. The original menu appears, including the correct names and descriptions, such as:Crudo di Ricciola con Agrumi e Olio al FinocchiettoYellowtail, citrus, wild fennel oilandBurrata di Andria con Pomodori Antichi e BasilicoFresh burrata, heirloom tomatoes, basil.
I like Elliot’s menu better, but it changes nothing. If my personal assistant weren’t getting married today, I’d be calling him to handle this. But he is, and, this time, I’m the acting PA.
This was not the bang I promised my wife. This was not the morning I promised myself. And she’s waiting for us to continue a very important discussion.
Given how knotted my own gut is about it, I can only imagine she feels the same. Elliot’s interruption couldn’t have worse timing.
Franki slides her palms down her thighs. It’s the third time she’s done it this morning. Someone else would think she looks calm and relaxed, but I know my wife.
Leaving the conversation from last night hanging like a shirt in a closet has her as on edge as I am.
I barely slept, thinking about the things I needed to say, and the questions I needed to ask her when she woke.
All of which was supposed to happen after her first orgasm and during breakfast. Instead, here we are: fully dressed at the ass crack of dawn, not a nipple in sight, and that perfect, warm, relaxed morning cuddle fuck obliterated by this douche nozzle’s interruption.
Elliot squirms under the weight of my ferocious frown.
“I’m going to call for breakfast and ask Piper to bring Oliver back. I need my dog, and you and I could both use a cup of tea,” Franki says to me.
Elliot raises his hand. “I’d adore a cuppa right now.”
“Do not test me. There’s a balcony railing ten feet behind you,” I warn softly.
He nods in one jerky dip of his chin. “Understood.”
“Why didn’t you ask the wedding planner for help with the menu?” Franki asks, her voice gentle but exasperated.
“I did. She told me sabotage is above her pay grade. That was your domain,” he says, nodding my way.
Franki cringes. “Rude.”
Also, accurate.
“Give me a minute while I make some calls,” I say.
Onehourlater,Elliotsits cross-legged on the floor, syringe feeding the tiniest kitten. Oliver stands on Franki’s lap, his long brown body stretched up so he can keep his face shoved into her neck. He oscillates between scorching Elliot with the dachshund version of side-eye and observing the cats in the lectern like they’re a fascinating squeaky toy.
Piper perches on the armchair Elliot offered her when she entered the room. She flicks her dark hair over her shoulder and watches him with a cross between intrigue and suspicion in her eyes. She may be only a couple years older than Elliot, but she’s decades more mature. She’s also genuinely nice.
I should probably warn her that Elliot is a work-in-progress, but our newest employee has a good head on her shoulders. I wouldn’t trust her with Oliver if she didn’t, and, frankly, this is damn good practice for Elliot on how to actually impress a woman. Accountability is sexy. Or so I’ve heard.
We finished off the room service breakfast fifteen minutes ago, and for the past forty-five minutes, I’ve made call after useless call about these menus.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just make them open the print shop,” Elliot says.
