“And then a second later, I said that the ones with the gold trim are also cool.” I leave the dresser, and Gotham chomps down on the kibble. When I sit on the rug next to Farrow, his eyes collide into mine.
“Maximoff. It’s the envelope of a wedding invitation. Most people will just rip apart that shit and throw it in the garbage. And the ones that scrapbook it won’t care if it has some fancy swirls or gold-foiled edge. Shit, they won’t even remember if it smells like thousand-dollar perfume.” He places a hand on my thigh and somehow it’s easier to breathe. “Not everything is going to be perfect.”
My eyes melt against his. “Is it that bad if I wish it could be perfect for you?”
His gaze caresses mine.
I add, “You said that you pictured your wedding when you were thirteen.”
He tilts his head from side-to-side. “Okay, but I also don’t want some of the shit I dreamed about at thirteen.” He counts off his thumb and fingers. “No five-piece orchestra, no red velvet cake, no Philly location. And I’m only telling you this to make you feel better—but I also wanted Taco Bell to cater the entire thing.”
I start to smile. “I thought you hate Taco Bell.”
His brows rise. “With a fucking passion.”
“Don’t tell my dad.” Tacos are his lifeblood, even ones at fast food joints.
Farrow moves his hand off my thigh, just to wrap his arm around my rigid back.
I hold his gaze. “I never grew up thinking I’d get married, and the fact that you dreamed about this day means something to me.” He knows this. He knows me even better than you. “A lot can go wrong between paparazzi, the media, and unknown factors raining down from the skies—and I feel like if we don’t have everything planned out perfectly, it’s all going to go to shit.”
Farrow’s hand glides up to my neck, his thumb drawing soothing circles on my skin. “But here’s the thing, as long as you’re there with me, wolf scout, it’s impossible for our wedding day not to be perfect.”
I exhale, letting this sink in. “So you’d elope then?” I try to tease him back.
He sucks in a breath. “No.”
I can’t help but smile. “Who would have thought the maverick bodyguard wants the most traditional wedding?”
His lips lift. “Does it really surprise you?”
I shake my head. “No.” Farrow has sought companionship and love since he was young, and I can easily see him craving to celebrate the love he shares with his future husband.
That’s me.
It knocks me back a bit.
I watch Farrow return his focus to the binder. “Jane insisted that we need to turn this back into her by the end of the week. And at your pace, wolf scout, she’ll get this binder when you’re eighty-years-old.”
I growl in frustration. But he’s right.
I hate that he’s right. Again.
“The swirls then,” I say. “You like those?”
“Yeah. I do.” He flips the page and we’re met with five different color palettes. Farrow quickly looks to me. “Breathe.”
I’m breathing. “I thought this was a this or that binder. Why are there five options here?”
“Probably because Jane knew colors were a big deal and wanted to give us more choices.” Farrow is already uncapping a black Sharpie with his teeth and marking a big X on two palettes—both having reds in them.
He knows what he wants.
I like that.
It’s making this easier, and God’s honest truth, I’d like to take a whole century to plan this wedding. But we’re on a strict deadline.
Originally, we planned to marry in a couple years. No rush. And then everything changed when Jane and Thatcher got engaged. I didn’t want my best friend to push back her wedding, just so I can marry Farrow first. She hates the idea of stealing my spotlight, and even if I protested a thousand times over, I know Jane. She’d wait decades for me. That’s just who she is.
I don’t want her to wait, so Farrow and I decided to move up our wedding date to this year, this winter.
Farrow points to a dark green. “Yes or no?”
I shrug. “It’s fine.”
“This is your wedding too.” He wants me to have an input.
I nod, but my gaze drifts to the chalkboard wall. Where around two-hundred scrawled names are stacked in columns, almost reaching the ceiling.
My stomach knots. “What the invitations go in are actually less stressful than who they’re going to.” Our guest list has been steadily growing. I have a large family.
Farrow has friends from undergrad and medical school. More friends than me.
“Do you think your father will come?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He spins the Sharpie between his fingers, but his gaze is on the name: Edward Keene. “But probably more as a professional courtesy.”
I wish his father could love him as deeply as a father should love a son.