The Bride (The Boss 3)

Crawling on my hands and knees like a vampire trying to avoid the rays of sunlight, I scrambled for the universal remote on the couch in front of the fireplace. I clicked the button for the shades and groaned in relief as the room was plunged into black-out darkness once more.

I sat up, my mouth feeling like someone had shoved a wad of cotton into it—probably because they’d mistaken me for a corpse and had started embalming me—and staggered toward the bathroom. I turned on the light, then slapped the switch immediately off again. In the dark, I leaned over the sink, turned the tap on—I never realized how loud running water was before—and filled my mouth. Swallowing seemed dicey, but I powered through it.

It was only when I got back to the bed that I noticed Neil wasn’t in it. I grabbed my sunglasses from my purse and slid them on before I ventured into the rest of the house. Halfway through the dining room, I heard Neil singing.

Singing?

He was a quarter century older than I was. He should have at least been mildly dead after last night.

I pushed open the door, and there he was, standing over the stove, cooking breakfast and whistling. He was even dressed, in jeans and a hunter green sweater that brought out the gorgeous color of his eyes. If I hadn’t had one foot in a vodka-soaked grave, I would have appreciated it more.

Instead, I leaned against the doorjamb and gave him a resentful glare over the top of my glasses.

“Sleeping Beauty awakes,” he said with a chuckle, scraping something out of a pan and onto a plate. The buttery smell, as well as the noise, made me want to hurl up everything in my stomach—though I had a suspicion there was nothing in there to hurl.

“You know, if you were one of the dwarves, you’d probably be Drunky,” he went on cheerfully. “Do you want mushrooms in yours?”

I held up one finger. “First, there weren’t any dwarves in Sleeping Beauty. Second, if you mention food again, I’m preemptively divorcing you. Third, what the hell? How are you even upright?”

“B12 shot. Dr. Williams was here this morning. I tried to wake you, to no avail. Do you want me to ring her? Have her come back?” He clicked off the burner, wisely taking my food warning to heart.

I shook my head, and I swear I felt my brain smack off the sides of my skull. “No. I refuse. I will bounce back from this sans vitamin cures, and prove that I’m still young.”

His lips tilted. “I don’t think you’re ever going to get away with complaining about your age. At least not to me.”

I shambled like a zombie to the breakfast nook and sat in my usual place. “Coffee. I beg of you.”

I plugged my ears while he got a cup and saucer down and slid them across the tabletop to me. He stood over the sink to eat his breakfast. “Last night was… Well, it was utterly amazing. Thank you so much, darling.”

I gave him a weak thumbs-up. “It was cool getting to meet some of your friends.”

“Did you ever track down the only ginger man you’d ever leave me for?” he asked around a mouthful of omelet.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I quipped, raising my mug to my lips.

“Humor, that’s a good sign. The hangover won’t kill you, then?”

“Not yet. But I do have to be in shape for tonight.” I pushed my sunglasses down and batted my blood-shot, makeup smeared eyes at him. “Your birthday present, Sir.”

“Ah, I look forward to it.” He paused. “Though I dare say I will look more forward to it once you’ve showered and brushed your teeth.”

“In sickness and in health,” I reminded him. “Did you really have a good time?”

“I really did.” He grinned at me. “I must admit, I shamelessly enjoyed showing off my young girlfriend. Perhaps that’s a symptom of turning fifty?”

“Well, I liked meeting your friends, so we’re even.” I rolled my head on my shoulders, and the cracking of my spine was both too loud and a huge relief.

“How did you like Ian and Gena?” he asked, with that tone of casual disinterest he could never pull off.

“How do you like Gena?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Lovely woman. Very charming.” He sipped his own coffee and avoided direct eye contact.

“You wanna fuck her,” I sing-songed.

“That I do.” He slid his plate onto the island countertop. “But they come as a bit of a package deal.”

“Swingers?” My eyebrows shot up. “My my, but aren’t we becoming suburbanites.”