Blame it on the Vodka (Blame it on the Alcohol)

“Yeah,” he agreed, though it looked painful for him to do so. We made it to the entrance of the kitchen when he added, “Someone wore me the fuck out.”

My smile came too quick for me to hide it, no matter how much I tried. With a mock gasp, I pressed a hand to my chest and gave my best shocked stare. “I would never.”

“Mmmhmm,” he hummed. “The least you could do is feed me.”

“If you say so,” I joked back.

Despite everyone’s warning, the table still overflowed with platters of every fruit and pastry available. When I saw a pastry labeled with dragon fruit jam, I grabbed two for Austin. I’d mocked him for liking something that lacked so much flavor, but he’d merely told me I brought enough flavor to his life to make up for it.

We moved down the line, and he grabbed a banana—my favorite fruit.

I added a cup of blueberry yogurt next to the pastries because I knew he loved blueberries.

He added a whole wheat biscuit next to the banana even though he hated whole wheat.

We continued down the line adding the other person’s favorites. When we got to the end, we swapped plates—continuing the tradition we started years ago at the college cafeteria.

They’d had buffet-style eating, and we’d gone to different ends. I would find something I knew he liked and didn’t want him to miss out on, so I’d add it to my plate only to end up with it full of his favorites. When we’d met back at the table, he’d done the same. So, we swapped plates as if it was completely normal. Nova and Vera had looked at us like we were insane, but we laughed and didn’t think anything of it. We just clicked—figuring the other person out with ease.

I hadn’t considered our connection abnormal, but after last night, I overthought everything. I felt everything differently, so when I looked down at my plate and saw a cinnamon roll I wouldn’t usually add, I couldn’t help but smile.

We grabbed a seat at one of the round tables, mingling and talking with other guests between bites—staying on the edge of conversations. It went perfectly until the spotlight shifted to us.

“You know, Raelynn, when I heard of your Vegas wedding, I assumed it was a publicity stunt. Especially to such an outstanding man,” one of the men who’d made dumbass comments the first night joked, giving a commiserating look to Austin. “So, just between us men, did she trap you for publicity? You’re an accomplished man for such a young age. It boosts her—” his eyes flicked to me, or more importantly, my chest, and back to Austin before finishing, “—personal reputation.”

Having someone talk dumb shit with a bunch of girls was fine, but to have a man say bullshit right to my face like I was too dumb to even notice the blatant insult pissed me off.

Rein it in, Rae. Rein it in.

I took deep breaths, reminding myself of my father’s campaign and the important sponsors watching around us.

The man laughed at his own joke until others slowly joined in. What I wouldn’t give to shove that chocolate stuffed crescent roll down his wrinkly, old throat.

I was midway through finding a socially acceptable response when Austin’s deep voice cut through the laughter.

“No,” he stated coldly. He waited for everyone to stop, the twitching muscle in his sharp jaw the only hint he may not be as calm as he appeared. When the asshole’s eyes finally met Austin’s, he continued. “She’s my wife because I couldn’t have imagined her as anything else since I first laid eyes on her. I’m lucky to have her. Especially since she kicked my ass in school, graduating top of our marketing class. She’s actually highly sought after by various companies who appreciate the wealth of knowledge and experience she has in such a fast-paced and always-changing digital market. Unfortunately for them, she’s too busy assisting her father’s campaign, filling in at their family company, and helping to build their charity to take on anything else.” He faced me, and I was too shocked by his speech to question how it looked when he cradled my jaw and stroked his thumb along my cheekbone. As if I was something precious. “I’m the lucky one and grateful that she makes time for me.”

Silence fell, but I was too busy basking in the warmth of his fingers to care. I leaned into his touch, placing a barely-there kiss of thanks against his palm.

“I had no idea.” The man tried to backtrack uncomfortably.

I faced him, holding his stare, enjoying the way he floundered. Too often, these gatherings were filled with generations that refused to acknowledge we weren’t in the good ‘ole boy days where women were just trophy wives to have dinner ready when they got home. We had minds and the skills to deserve our own trophy, but also confident enough to accept ourselves as our own trophy. It wasn’t until someone else spoke up that I finally gave the asshole a reprieve and looked away.