Love and Neckties - Lacey Black Page 0,34

name to the other line.

When he drops the pen, he glances up at me and my heart dances in my chest. There’s a parade of emotions there, ones I’m not equipped to dissect this evening. I’m exhausted, really. From the tear-filled wedding to all the crap in my own life, I’m just not ready to dive into the looks Samuel keeps giving me. The ones he’s going to do something to rectify the whole marriage situation the first chance he gets. He’s going to fight me.

Us.

So, I deflect to the one thing I’m good at.

The one thing that drives the man absolutely crazy.

Sarcasm and humor.

“Ready to go, Sammy? I’ll let you buy me a drink or two before dinner,” I tell him, patting him on the chest for good measure.

He sighs deeply and straightens his necktie. “It’s Samuel,” he reminds me, and I inwardly smile. It’s a game at this point. I’ve known my entire adult life he hates the nickname, yet I use it every chance I get because I love to get a reaction out of him. It’s pretty much the highlight of my day.

“I know, Sammy,” I tell him, wrapping my arm around his. “Let’s go get some booze.”

“I think I’ll pass on the alcohol,” he mumbles as we follow behind everyone else to exit. “Forever.”

“You’re no fun.”

Again, he sighs. “I think I’ve had plenty of fun to last a lifetime.”

“And to think, we’re just getting started.”

He groans, a mixture of shock and pain. The shock I can understand. His systematic world has been turned upside down. Actually, the pain I get too. It’s the same. He’s a simple man. Black and white. Everything has its place. Order. He loves his job and does it to the best of his ability. Sure, it’s a weird profession, but if anyone understands weird, it’s me. I appreciate it, revel in it. It’s my thing, and that’s why I understand how Samuel can fight this thing that’s landed right smack dab in the middle of our lives. To me, it’s like fate brought us together, one drunken, crazy night. The stars aligned and put me right where I was supposed to be. To him, it’s like someone threw a bright red crayon into the dryer with his clean tighty-whities. He doesn’t know what to do with it or how to fix it.

So he panics.

Well, I’m not going to let him panic.

I’m going to show him he can still have fun with a red crayon.

After all, red is my favorite color.

***

We have a small, intimate dinner in the hotel restaurant to celebrate Latham and Harper’s marriage. I’m not surprised they can’t keep their hands off each other. They’re deliriously happy, their smiles real and eager. When the plates are cleared, the staff brings out a champagne toast and chocolate drizzled cheesecake. As we raise our glasses to the couple and enjoy dessert, I can’t help but feel a little envious that they’re so open and public with their love and affection. After all, I’m sitting next to my husband, and no one knows.

Well, except Harper.

And apparently, she’s not telling anyone, considering no one is freaking out the oldest Grayson got married one drunken night in Las Vegas.

I dive into my cheesecake, even though it’s not really my thing. I don’t usually eat dessert with this much real sugar, but I’ll admit, it’s good. Really good, actually, and I find myself scraping my fork along the plate just to make sure I don’t miss a single crumb of that buttery crust. It’s heaven in my mouth.

“You going to eat that?” I ask, pointing to Samuel’s plate with my fork.

“No,” he says, looking about as uncomfortable as a man in a gynecologist’s office.

“Why? It’s good,” I tell him with a mouth full of food.

Samuel looks down at my empty plate and points to his. “Have at it.”

I move his dessert in front of me, having no intention of actually eating it. I’ll put myself in a sugar coma for sure, but he doesn’t know that. Instead, I take a small forkful, swipe it through some of the chocolate drizzle on the plate, and move my fork to his face. “What?” he asks, glancing down at the fork as if it were about to bite him.

“Eat it.”

“No, thank you.”

I move the fork around and make an airplane noise, softly, so no one hears. “Eat it,” I sing, touching the tip of the fork to his closed mouth. The result is a small glob of