Unwillfully Wed to My Valentine (Fire at Will #1)

Chapter Four

My people are the cutest, and I would die for them.

Liam

Cute. Cute . Cute.

So cute.

So painfully, and utterly, and tremendously cute.

Scrolling through a selection of gothic dresses, spiderweb tights, corsets, and accessories, I take slow bites of my veggie wrap, copy links, and compile an email that is steadily growing longer.

Picturing my adorable Amber in the outfits, as though she’s my very own life-size dress-up doll, is nearly enough to undo me.

I wonder what she’s up to right now, in my house, floating through my halls, meandering in my fridge and my pantry. Has she found the selection of coffee I bought for her? Has she noticed the bright pink label on the shelf denoting it as hers ?

Bambi’s Beans, for Juice I wrote in a fit of delirious glee on Saturday, as I finished off the final preparations to bring my wife home. I bet it makes her laugh. Or giggle , rather—cutely.

Everything Amber does is cute.

I’m so happy.

Amber is mine.

Finally, completely, mine.

The underlying stress of not having her, of maybe never having her, is gone. Lifted. Put away. All I need to do now is convince her to stay with me for longer than a year.

Forever, even.

Forever and ever, so we can live happily ever after, like at the end of a Barbie as movie. Far better than the recent films where Barbie is only ever herself. No sparkly dress transformations. No cute little weddings.

Pitiful.

Amber and I, we will be classic Barbie . Happily ever after Barbie.

The idea is almost enough to make me smile at work . In this drab room, in this drab suit, with these drab spreadsheets and my drab reports. I was always taught that work is something you tolerate, not enjoy, and I guess I’ve put that fully into practice.

It’s nice knowing I have a cute little wife to go home to and enjoy now.

She’s just so…perfect.

I add a black crystal tiara link to the email, then look up when a knock sounds at my door.

The person on the other side does not wait for a reply, and they’ve also come on my assistant, Teresa’s, lunchbreak, which can only mean one thing.

It’s Brian.

Brian, grin wide, sweeps into my office like a whirlwind, which is respectable, given that my company’s name is Whirlwind Branding . He’s on brand. He’s always on brand. Brian is, undeniably, Brian. All the time. Consistently. I appreciate that.

“Afternoon, boss!”

I nod a silent greeting.

Brian, elegantly pulls a small parcel from his bag. “Package for you. Some light reading?”

“Something like that,” I offer, taking the obviously bubble-mailered book. As I hook my finger in the lip to war with the adhesive, I recognize that Brian…is lingering. My gaze lifts, focuses, sticks on his wild smile. “What?”

“ Well ,” he begins in a way that makes my brow furrow, “nothing.”

My eyes narrow. “Are you going to watch me open my mail?”

“No, no. That would be an invasion of privacy, and as your favorite mailroom guy, I take privacy very seriously.” Hooking a thumb in his mail bag, he clamps his fist to his chest and announces, “Here at Whirlwind Branding’s mailroom, we pride ourselves in an acceptable amount of nosiness. Nothing more, nothing less.”

I stare at him. The acceptable amount is zero .

He turns, away from the exit, and falls into a step as he links his arms behind his back. “ Well , okay. Let’s say I am up to something.” He casts a look my way. “On a scale of one to Wow, I really love my mailroom guy, Brian! , how likely are you to hear me out?”

I’d hear any of my employees out. About anything. I didn’t hire many of my employees personally, but given that I’m in charge of their professional well-being, I find myself uniquely responsible for providing a comfortable work environment.

That said, some of my cutest employees need to reassess their work ethic.

Brian, however, is not usually one such employee.

The man loves mail.

His adoration for his job is pivotal, passionate, adorable .

I fight the seal on my bubble mailer, managing to bust it open. “Get back to work.”

Brian chuckles, swinging toward the door. “That’s what I feared. I guess I’ll just be—”

“ If you’re up to something worth my time, make sure you’re prepared to present it cohesively and concisely. Preferably, through PowerPoint.” I love PowerPoints.

Brian brightens. “You got it, boss!”

Once the door closes behind him, I pour the book I bought out into my hands.

Slender. Matte. Flexible.

So, You Want to Be an Indie Author, Huh?

Well. I don’t. But someone I care about certainly does, and despite the five books she’s published, she’s not exactly figured out how to yet.

Resting back in my chair, I start on chapter one while I finish my veggie wrap.

Shocking absolutely no one—except maybe Amber, who has published five romances in five separate subgenres in the past eight years— chapter one is on branding.

What fun.