He exhales sharply. Thatalmostsounded like a laugh.
I’m about to move on when I remember the big one.
“Oh! And where do you want the luxury porta-potties?”
He goes still. “Thewhat?”
“The luxury porta-potties,” I repeat cheerfully. “Climate-controlled. Bluetooth-enabled. Ivy picked them out. They arrive Friday.”
Dean looks genuinely rattled.
“Why are they Bluetooth-enabled?”
“I didn’t ask. I was too busy wondering if they also have voice activation and mood lighting.”
He glares at me.
“You can’t have 300 people traipsing inside your house to use the restroom. It’s better this way.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “I cannot believe I let them talk me into this.”
“You lethertalk you into this,” I say gently.
His expression softens for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. I did.”
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us realizing that this week has been even more unhinged than we anticipated.
I nudge my clipboard toward him. “So, where do you want them?”
He doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at me—really looks—and I feel it like a static charge.
“You’re enjoying this,” he says.
“Am I?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second.
I smile. “I mean… I could put them right in front of the house if you’d like.”
“Try it,” he says, his voice low. “See what happens.”
Muffin groans from under the desk, tired of being around whatever this is.
This tension between us—it’s undeniable.
I grin, stand, and tap my pen against the clipboard. “Think about it. I’ll be back later. Oh, by the way, George is supposed to be picked up after lunch.”
“Finally,” he mutters. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.”
It’s 1:47 p.m.
George was supposed to be picked up after lunch.
It is currently…after lunch.
He is still here.
Not just here, but perched like a bearded overlord on top of a folding table, chewing aggressively on a discarded ribbon spool and ignoring every single one of my increasingly desperate bribes.
