He basically smiles. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t hold this over me decades down the line, if I said no.”
“Finally starting to figure me out,” I say lightly.
Thatcher nods, mouth rising more. “I’m happy to be your groomsman.” He pauses, but then quickly adds, “I wouldn’t have said no. I appreciate this.” He holds up the card.
I smile back.
Asking Thatcher is strangely easier than Oscar and Donnelly. Maybe because he’s quiet. And I knew he wouldn’t say much.
We go join Jane and Maximoff at the horseshoe-shaped booth.
“We’re still waiting on the samples,” Jane tells us while Thatcher slides next to her and kisses her temple. She blushes.
I try not to laugh when she checks him out and smooths her lips together. It’s impressive that he can tongue-tie a Cobalt without saying a word, especially when the initial honeymoon stage has ended. They’re very engaged and have already dealt with rocky relationship terrain. And came out stronger.
Maximoff curves his arm around my shoulders. “Jane has switched to Team New York.”
“Really, Cobalt?”
She sits up straighter. “Charlie can be incredibly persuasive when he wants to be.”
I roll my eyes. “He texted you please come too?”
“Yes, and there were a few rentals that looked promising.”
Thatcher watches the entrance. “We should keep thinking this over before we take a vote again.”
“Agreed,” Jane nods.
“But you’re leaning towards New York?” I ask, just to be sure.
“Oui.”
Maximoff will likely also skew that direction in time too. I’m feeling too protective. This is a huge change in their lives, and I’d rather figure out why Charlie wants them there before the choice is made.
A pastry chef struts out of the kitchen with an assortment of cake slices. She spreads them on the table: banana, vanilla, pecan, carrot.
Jane opens up her binder to take notes. “You can pick as many as you want, depending on how many layers you’d like.”
“I—” Maximoff cuts himself off as my phone rings loudly. I slip my cell from my pocket and quickly scan the screen.
Shit.
Loren Hale is calling me.
I don’t know why. But if Maximoff’s dad is calling me and not his son, then there’s a chance I could’ve found my way onto his shit list again. I wrack my brain, wondering if I left a dirty dish out or misplaced one of his treasured comics.
Maximoff looks puzzled at the name on the screen. “Answer it.”
I’m already clicking into the call, and Maximoff leans over to Jane, filling her in. I decide not to put the call on speakerphone, just in case Lo is about to give me the third-degree.
“This is Farrow,” I answer.
“Hey, Farrow. Is Moffy busy?” Lo asks hurriedly like he’s almost out of breath.
I frown, my gaze cast on the thirty or forty-plus plates of wedding cake. He could’ve just called Maximoff, but he must know if he asked that same question to his son, he’d receive a white lie 9 times out of 10.
Maximoff will drop anything and everything for his family, and I figure Lo doesn’t want him dropping shit for him.
Now I actually wish he was calling to grill me. Because this is worse.
I’m starting to really believe that something prolonged is bothering Lo and Lily. And the rumors about Luna being a sex addict just don’t seem to hold enough weight to push them there.
I should definitely tell Loren Hale that we’re taste-testing wedding cake.
I should do that.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Because I know it’s not what Maximoff would want, and I also really crave to be there for his parents if they need us.
“Maximoff’s not busy,” I tell Lo. “What’s going on?”
Lo sighs in relief. “I’ve got to run somewhere, and there’s a meeting at Hale Co. that I need Moffy to sit in for me. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
I stand up and slip out of the booth, realizing this is time sensitive. Maximoff follows suit. To his dad, I ask, “Does he need to do anything in the meeting?”
At those words, Maximoff’s demeanor changes. Back stringent, face fortified for whatever storm is about to rage in.
“Yeah,” Lo answers. “Just make a couple decisions on some product placements. Nothing he’ll fuck up—Jesus Christ, we have to fix these elevators.” He lets out an angry breath. “Sorry. I’ve got to run. Tell Moffy that the receptionist will let him know where to go….and thanks. Tell him thanks.” Those last three words sound sadder than any other. Almost guilt-ridden.
“It’s not a problem, Lo. We’ll be there in less than ten.” After I hang up, I explain everything in a few sentences to Maximoff.
He turns to Jane. “You and Thatcher pick out the cake layers.”
“What?” Her eyes pop out of her head. “No. We can pick options—”
“We’re okay with whatever,” I tell Jane. “We trust you.”
“Just no red velvet,” Maximoff says, and that makes me smile. He remembered I didn’t want red velvet.