“They confirmed it with me today.”
“After you called them, I’m sure.” I smile to show I’m not irritated at his micromanaging. There’s not much he can do right now as we await the birth, so if it helps him fill the time, it doesn’t bother me. I pull the clean shirt over my head and smooth it over the massive curve of my stomach. “Did you also confirm the hospital bag, the car seat installation, and the playlist I made for labor?”
“The bag is packed and in the front closet. Fedor installed the car seats a few days ago in the Escalade, which will become the primary family vehicle because of its safety rating, and Viktor inspected them. I haven’t touched the playlist because you threatened me with bodily harm if I edited it.”
I nod in approval. “Smart man.”
He sits beside me on the porch. The estate is quiet at this hour, with morning light hitting the bay through the palms and over water so flat it looks like glass. I picked this house. I chose the furniture, the paint colors, and the kitchen layout. Irina made a few modifications to the kitchen, which means it meets specifications I didn’t know existed. I’m completely flexible if it means borscht or pelmeni whenever I crave it. I’ve discovered a love for Russian food that I hope remains after the birth, when my body changes once again.
“The hotel team sent the branding mockups.” He pulls up his phone and hands it to me. “They want your notes by Friday.”
I scroll through the designs for the lobby signage and guest materials I’ve been consulting on for the last two months. The work started as a favor (probably to me to keep me busy), but the team already treats my input like it matters because I’m competent, even if the job started as a distraction.
Six years of managing Echelon’s VIP floor taught me things about guest experience that hospitality textbooks haven’t caught up with yet, and Adrian’s hotel group is smart enough to use that. “The typeface on the welcome packet is wrong. It reads corporate, not boutique. I’ll send alternatives this afternoon.”
“You could tell them in person. The project meeting is at two.”
I shake my head. “I have a prenatal massage at two.”
“I’ll move the meeting to four.” He’s already reaching for his phone.
I put a hand on his wrist. “Adrian, stop rearranging schedules around me.”
“I’m rearranging the meeting, not you. You stay at two.” He takes his phone back. “I’ll tell them you’ll call in.”
I lean against his shoulder because arguing about scheduling has become one of our love languages, and he’s getting better at the compromise part even if he still leads with the solution. That he cares enough to want me at the meetings in some form far outweighs how irritating he can be about getting his way.
“Remind me to send notes to Gallows on her latest sketches too.” I’ve commissioned her to do artwork for all the properties. That’s enough to keep her busy for at least five years, and shedoesn’t complain about charity because she’ll earn every penny of her commissions. She’s good now, and I hope she’ll decide to use some of that money to take lessons that will make her great.
“I haven’t seen them yet.”
“They’re very good. They just need a touch more color and some softening.” Her rough life on the streets is over for now, with her commission and hotel room provided for her long-term use as an office that just happens to have a bed she can use. Her artwork just hasn’t completely caught up with her new reality yet.
Marisol arrivesat noon with bags of groceries and a binder she’s labeled “Godmother Operations Manual” in gold lettering. She drops the binder on the kitchen counter and starts unloading produce.
“Viktor tried to argue seniority again.” She arranges avocados in a bowl with more precision than the task requires. “I told him godparent status isn’t determined by length of service, and emotional intelligence outranks operational experience. He conceded.”
“Viktor conceded?”
“He nodded once and walked away, which I’m counting as a formal surrender.” She looks at my stomach. “How are my godchildren?”
“Active and running out of room.” I lower myself onto a kitchen stool, which now requires strategic planning and upper body strength. “Braden kicked hard enough to make me spill coffeethis morning, and Diana has been sitting on my bladder since Tuesday.”
“Braden.” Marisol tastes the name. “Braden Kuzma Bugrov. It’s strong.”
“Adrian chose Kuzma after his grandfather. I chose Braden because it means ‘broad valley,’ and after what I went through to get here, a wide open space sounded right.”
“Why Diana Avrora Bugrova?”
“Diana for independence. Avrora is the Russian version of my name.” I pause. “Adrian suggested it, and I cried for ten minutes, but we don’t need to discuss that further.” I hope the crying jags will taper off once my hormones return to whatever new normal looks like after the babies are born.
Marisol smiles and slides a glass of water toward me. “Your acceptance letter came through, right? FIU?”
“Yes, for the fall semester at Chaplin School of Hospitality and Tourism Management.” I drink the water because hydration is important. “Classes start eight weeks after my due date, which is ambitious, but the nanny Adrian hired is actually competent, and the hybrid format means I can do most coursework from home.”
“Look at you.” Marisol leans against the counter. “Consulting for a hotel group, accepted to a degree program, and about to deliver twins. It’s so different from when you first met Adrian.”
“Yeah.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “I never imagined how it started could lead to being so happy.”
