“Well, we first met online two years ago,” I stammer. “We met in person yesterday—”Fuck. “After dating online. And lots and lots of emails?—”
“And y’all already tied the knot?” She furrows a brow. “Yesterday?”
“Yeah.” My lips curl into a too-big grin. “We were in Vegas, so we were likewhy not?”
After a beat, she nods, which is better than her accusing us of lying to her face. “So, how are y’all liking it here so far?”
“It’s a beautiful place,” Ethan says breezily. “Would love to move to an area just like this.”
“Yeah?” Our server leans in. “You know, there have been whispers of ’em wanting to tear down the woods and developluxuryapartments.” With how deep her grimace is, you’d think the town’s planning on building a bunch of outhouses. “If it’s something y’all wanna consider.”
“Oh, no,” I say immediately. “It’s… out of our budget. We can’t afford anythingluxurious. He’s… a circus clown.”
I can feel his glare boring a hole through the side of my head. “And she’s a cat handler,” Ethan supplies. “Her cat’s an influencer. He wears novelty hats.”
I almost twist my head to gawp at him. Instead, I spare our server a bright laugh. “Yeah. My kitty is semi-famous. He brings in some cash. Not enough where we can afford something so pricey, though. Unlike homebuyers on those house-hunting shows, we do not have a budget of fifteen million dollars withour combined income. We’re lucky to afford our honeymoon as it is.”
Her nod is less enthusiastic this time. I get it. It’s a lot of information to take in. “All right… What can I get for y’all?”
I fight my sigh of relief. I don’t think anyone wants to bear witness to my terrible improv skills any longer. I know I don’t.
After we place our order and she hurries away from our table like a bat out of hell, we lock eyes again.
“You didn’t want to tell her I was a pilot?” Ethan says immediately. “Or literally anything but a clown?”
“Well, I had tosellwhy we can’t afford to live here,” I say. “I’d assume pilots make more than a clown in an average year. Also, how do you know about my cat?”
“We’re married, dear,” he says, his voice an utter deadpan. “I should know about your cat.”
“Yes, but I’m not the one running the account.” I lean in, propping my elbows onto the table. “My sister is.”
“Oh.” His brow dips. “So that’s how those posts went up during our calls.”
Now my chin is resting against the palm of my hand. “Tell me, Ethan. How do you know when pictures of Pie go up?”
“Aaron,” he says. “He’s a fan of the cowboy fit. Lara likes the ones where the cat’s wearing fruit hats.”
“I personally prefer the shark hats,” I say. “And you do know that posts can be scheduled, right?”
“They can?”
“You don’t know this?”
“I don’t do social media,” he says, which causes my head to tilt. “I’ve got better things to do than post pictures of my dinner.”
“Like hiking?” When he lets out a wry laugh, I lean in closer. “Oh, come on, Ethan. You’re always talking about it. If you did do social media, your bio would literally state:I make hiking my personality.”
“And yours would say:Yes, I’m Barbie from Malibu.No, I’m not made of plastic.”
My eyes roll. “First of all, I’m from Westminster. I just happen to live in Malibu at the moment. Second of all, my profile wouldn’t say that.”
“What would it say?”
“I’m not a bot, I’m a morning person.”
He snorts so loudly that the couple two tables down glances over. “You’re funny, Bee. A stand-up comedian in the making. You arenota morning person.”
“Excuse me? I totally am?—”
