Maybe when they first walked in after they closed.
“Right then,” he said softly. “You gonna design me the perfect kitchen, baby?”
“Absolutely.”
Of course she was.
Knock herself out doing it.
That was his Ryn.
“Right to the soul, love you, Ryn,” he told her.
That got him another big, white smile, though this one was wobbly.
“Right back at cha, baby,” she replied.KAThree weeks later…“No shit? You found your house in the middle of this cookbook business?” I ask.
Boone tipped up his chin. “Close on it next week.”
“Only dude I know whose woman gets him a house based on the kitchen she’s gonna make him cook in,” Auggie, who I was noticing has the habit, instantly starts giving shit.
“Like you’re not the cook of the family,” Mag retorts.
But Auggie is Teflon.
And as such, not missing a beat, he shoots back, “Kitchen time is Juno-and-Me time.”
“You didn’t make up your pork rind nachos with Juno,” Axl points out.
Say…
What?
“Wait, hold the phone,” I cut in. “Pork rind nachos?”
I mean, it’s a constant threat, imminent orgasm, just sitting and rapping with these dudes.
But…
Pork rind nachos?
That has to be the numero uno culinary orgasm of all time.
“They don’t hold a candle to Axl’s pulled pork tacos with peach salsa,” Mag asserts.
Although that sounds awesome, nothing beats pork rinds.
I know that and I haven’t even tasted them (yet).
I decide not to share that.
Instead, I say, “Please, I beg you, tell me those nachos are among the recipes you’re giving to me.”
Auggie’s smile is wide and glamorous.
And his answer is perfection.
“Of course.”
I hope a fraction of the sheer amount of gratitude I have for this is offered to him from my eyes before I turn to Boone and say, “Good call, avoiding any hanky-panky on top of rat droppings.”
Boone sizes me up like he hasn’t been sitting with me for the last half an hour.
When he finishes doing that, he says, “Christ, it’s like you could be one of them.”
“One of what?” I ask.
“Rock Chick or Dream Team, take your pick,” he answers.
He has no idea.
“That’s OG for the women who started it all, the Rock Chicks, and the next gen, which are our women, the Dream Team,” Axl helpfully, but unnecessarily, explains.
“Unh-hunh,” I reply.
“She doesn’t get it,” Auggie mutters.
There is no way humanly possible I could get it any more than I already got it.
I don’t share that either.
“Magnusson!”
We hear this from the direction of the book counter.
We all look that way to see bandana-sporting Duke staring at the front door.
So we all look to the front door just in time for the bell over it to ring.
“Fuck,” Mag mutters.
But my heart just…
Stops.
Because in comes two people I know very well.
Daisy Sloan (and she brings with her her mile-high, teased out, platinum-blonde hair and massive bazungas, their cleavage bared over a gingham print, cap-sleeved blouse knotted under her impressive rack, high-waisted, sailor-front, denim short-shorts, and cork-heeled-and-soled, brown leather, platform, six-inch strappy sandals).
And with her is Tod.
Half of Tod and Stevie.
Though now he’s sans Stevie, with Daisy, and homed in on Mag.
Um…
Neither Daisy nor Tod waste time bearing down on our table.
More aptly in Tod’s case, on Mag.
“Hey, sugars,” Daisy greets, then her twinkling blue eyes (also curious in that “Do I know you?” way) hit mine.
None of us gets the chance to respond to Daisy.
Tod is addressing Mag.
“I see the memo has been lost,” he states.
“Listen, dude—” Mag tries.
That’s as far as he gets.
Tod jerks a thumb at himself and declares, “I am the official wedding planner to all Rock Chicks.”
“Technically, our women are Dream Team,” Axl notes.
Tod’s attention shifts to Axl.
EEK!
“I’ll amend, all Rock Chicks and any and all offshoots of Rock Chicks, of which the Dream Team is, seeing as Lottie is Jet’s sister, Lottie is the Queen Bee of the Dream Team, and Jet is a Rock Chick,” Tod explains like it pains him greatly to do so. “Be they here, in Denver, or elsewhere, say, LA. But definitely here in Denver where, incidentally, I live, and as such, know all the best venues and vendors to create the perfect individually-crafted nuptials of all time,” he finishes.
He then slams down on the table something I haven’t noticed he was carrying.
It’s a scrapbook.
A massive one.
And it’s bulging out the sides with wisps of fabric, color cards, what appear to be magazine clippings, and other bits of paper.
“This is what I’ve worked up so far,” he states.
“So far,” Auggie mutters with amusement.
Again, Tod’s attention shifts. “Did I request comments from the peanut gallery?”
“Nope,” Auggie replies, grinning broadly.
“It’s good you’re cute or you’d be on my last nerve. Since you’re cute, you’re on my second to last nerve,” Tod shares to Auggie, and then looks back to Mag. “Your woman isn’t returning my calls.”
It’s evident physically that Mag is at this point only very cautiously wading in.
He does it saying, “Well, bro, she reported in to me, so I know you had your preliminary sit-down, and you nixed her bohemian theme so I’m not sure where you two can go from here.”
