Page 48 of The Marriage Clause

About the fact that pride has never once paid for memory care.

"As ready as I’m ever going to be."

"That’s the spirit," she teases. "Then let’s make you look like you belong in this world."

The problem is, by the time she zips me into the first dress she selected for Friday night at La Maison Aurelle and turns me toward the mirror, I’m starting to wonder what belonging would feel like.

Chapter Nine

EVERETT

Stepping into my office this morning after the gym, I wasn't prepared for what Everly had in store for me.

I slept here again last night. Snuck out after Aria went to sleep because I know I'd never get rest with her down the hall, and I happen to know that none of this was here before I left my office bright and early to work out with Colston and Zayne.

It looks like a wedding magazine threw up all over my office.

There are flowers everywhere.

Boxes. Fabrics. Cake samples. A linen specialist holding beige swatches. A caterer. A florist. Two event coordinators. One poor man wheeling in something involving crystal vases and a step stool that looks like he could have used backup to push that cart up here.

And in the center of it all, perched on my office sofa with a tablet in one hand and far too much satisfaction in her expression, is Everly.

She looks up and grins.

"There he is."

I stop dead.

"What the hell is this?"

"Your wedding at a glance," Everly says. "Try to keep up."

I take in the chaos again.

My desk has vanished behind pastry boxes and binders. My conference table is covered in sample centerpieces. Someone has pinned floral sketches to a presentation easel in the corner like we're launching a hostile takeover of peonies.

I told her to keep it to a minimum, but telling Everly not to go all out for an event is like telling me not to work eighty hours a week. We'd both tell that person to fuck right off. It's a family trait.

Then I see Aria.

She's standing beside the florist in a navy dress, hair half up, listening intently to someone describe cascading arrangements. She looks composed—mildly interested at best, though the florist would never guess it. I know that smile.

What gets me is how easily Aria fits in my space.

My office has never felt smaller.

"This is unnecessary," I say.

Everly stands. "No, actually, it's incredibly necessary. The board is watching, and like it or not, we're part of Seattle's favorite spectacle. People care what we do, what we wear, where we vacation, and especially who we marry." She waves one hand absently toward the linen vendor, selecting an ivory swatch that looks identical to the other ivory swatch. "This wedding needs planning, photos, vendor contracts, exclusive media coverage, and most importantly, momentum. We need this to look like something the two of you have been quietly moving toward for months, not something you stumbled into on a staircase."

"That is, unfortunately, exactly what happened."

She flicks her fingers. "Details," she says, sounding almost bored by my attempts to drag this back into reality. "You'll thank me later. This kind of media storm is good for business—for all of Kauffman Enterprises. The board will be pleased, the public will get all the juicy details about Aria's dress designer and what flavor of cake she shoved in your mouth at the reception, and by Monday morning, you'll probably have a fresh stack of mergers to look into."

An event coordinator appears in front of me with a clipboard. "Mr. Kauffman, we've organized the morning into stations to maximize efficiency."

I stare over at Everly to my side.