“Marry me. Raise a zoo with me. Make some feral-ass babies with me.”
She didn’t even hesitate.
She reached out for my face, pulling me up, and planting a hard, long kiss on me.
“Yes,” she murmured against my lips, then let me slide the ring on. “But I’m not wearing a white dress.”
“Me either,” I agreed, getting a laugh out of her. “Fuck, baby, just think of the food at the ceremony,” I said, and her forehead hit my chest, but not before I saw the giant smile on her face.
Oh, yeah.
Happily ever after with the chick I met when she slapped the taste out of my mouth at a bar sounded like a wild fucking time.
Theo - 7 months
“Here she is!” Gracie said, tone as sweet and chipper as ever as she pulled open the door to her apartment to reveal a shitton of the other girls lounging about. “Right on time for her lesson!” she added, making me feel like I was suddenly back in school and needing a tutor or something.
And, I guess, they were my teachers. Well, some of them. The others were just there to hang out.
Because I very much doubted that Vi, Layna, or Hope knew any more about cooking than I did.
But Gracie and Billie definitely knew how to cook. Which was why I was there.
For cooking lessons.
I was thinking of it as my wedding gift to Dezi.
I never wanted to change for a man. But Dezi made me want to try for him, to learn new things for him, to take what made him happy, and learn to create that for him.
And what made Dezi happy was food. In particular, home-cooked food.
After the whole ketchup fiasco, that the girls club was never going to let me live down, I decided that I needed hands-on help.
“Okay, so, we’ve all compiled a list of Dezi’s favorite foods,” Gracie started.
“Which is massive,” Vi cut in.
“I mean, yeah, it really is,” Gracie admitted. “But we are crossing off the really complicated dishes. Or the ones that require too much attention to detail. At least to start out with.”
“So what are we making tonight?” I asked, dropping down my purse, then reaching to tie up my hair.
“Well, he loves a good baked pasta dish. So we can either do baked ziti or lasagne. I bought the supplies for both.”
Of course she did. Gracie was always above and beyond prepared.
“Whichever one is easier,” I said, shrugging.
“Ziti,” Layna, Vi, and Hope all said in unison.
“Okay. Ziti. That’s a good one,” Gracie said. “And we will do an appetizer and a dessert with that. I figure we can do that each week, so you get a really well-rounded education as well as different options, so you never feel blindsided if he suddenly wants something sweet and not savory.”
“Okay. That sounds great. What kind of appetizer?”
“The consensus seems to be homemade mozzarella sticks. Which sort of go with the baked ziti theme, I guess. And I will show you how to make garlic bread too as a little side.”
“And for dessert?” I asked.
Again, the answer was in unison.
“Donuts.”
I had to admit, him having the princesses who knew and loved him so much really only benefited me since we’d gotten together.
They were the ones who’d helped him decide on my ring, I knew it. And the ones who’d somehow managed to talk him out of having a slushy machine at our wedding when we got around to that.
The catering plans had been… extensive.
I didn’t put half the amount of thought into my dress as he was putting into the menu.
And if that didn’t just sum us up perfectly as a couple, I don’t know what did.
An hour and a half later, I had somewhat mastered the whole breading the mozzarella stick thing, and was currently keeping a close eye on the pasta so it didn’t overcook, when the door opened, and in walked Willa.
“That smells good,” she said, taking a deep breath as she set her briefcase down, then pulled off her off-white blazer, leaving her in a white silk shirt and the off-white pants that matched her blazer. And her ice-pick heels, like usual.
“Can I talk to Theo for a second alone?” she asked, giving Gracie a small smile.
“Oh, sure. Yeah, of course,” Gracie said. “But make sure she keeps an eye on that pasta, okay?” she said, clearly worried about them. Even though we had a timer set.
I guess when I was famous for ketchup soup, I couldn’t exactly be offended when I wasn’t trusted with noodles.
“What’s up, Willa?” I asked, confused by the serious look on her face.
“Well, this is sort of delicate. And I don’t know quite how to broach it, so I am just going to say it.”
“Okay. I don’t mind blunt, you know me.”
“It’s about your father,” she said, waiting a beat for my reaction.