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

Chapter Nineteen

? ? ?

Branding is easier than feeling.

Liam

Did I sleep last night?

Some. I slept some .

Did Frank sleep last night?

No. No, she did not. Bless that woman.

The moment Amber and I got home, I asked her to order some food, then I bolted to my bedroom with Gertrud and read the book my darling wife—cruelly—sent to my email before I could drop everything in its favor.

I read it once, finishing up where she left off at a reasonable hour, so I called Frank.

Then, I read it twice more while Frank screen shared with me her process of hand-drawing a logo and putting together the branding board, with social media posting examples included. At around three in the morning, I suggested that the both of us should get some sleep.

Then I hung up.

Now, I’m at work, with a completely finished branding package in my email, sent at five thirty. It is the most stunning, most Bambi thing I have ever seen. Every cell in me wants to abandon whatever the schedule Amber is about to send over says in favor of showing her and rambling about how much highlighter I’ll need for her new book once it’s in print.

The book is her.

So her.

If she really can’t tolerate me anymore after our year is up, I need her production times to come down to a matter of weeks, because I will be surviving off the taste of her from one book to the next. With this story, the dilution I felt in her other works is gone. It’s just pure Bambi. My Bambi.

Resisting my urges, I pull my walkie-talkie and walkie-talkie instructions out of my drawer. The cute sequins catch the muted overhead light as I find the channel for Frank in my list, tune in, and press the button.

“Come in, Frank, over.”

A moment passes.

Sleepy hesitation greets me. “Mr.…Warrick? Will got you one of these things, too? You… use …it?”

Of course I use it. I’m a super secret spy. And she is not abiding by the rules. I’m glad she had her device tuned to the right channel. According to the rules, everyone has a specific channel, and as long as you aren’t in a conversation, your charged device must always be set to your specific channel so others in the network can reach you. “Copy. You sound exhausted, over.”

A deep sigh reverberates from the speaker. “My blood is coffee. I exist in a state of perpetual vibration. I can see colors and hear shapes. But it’s fine. Probably. How’s Mrs. Warrick like her branding package? Any changes she’d like me to make before I pass out in the breakroom?”

I forget my walkie-talkie manners. “Amber refused to take my last name. She’s not Mrs. Warrick . She’s still Mrs. D’Amore.”

Silence. Probably filled with pity.

“Uh. Sorry to hear that, I think?” Her tone does not relay any pity whatsoever. “But about the branding package…?”

“I haven’t shown her yet, but I know she’ll adore it. I wanted to thank you explicitly before I found a moment to broach the topic with her. Firsts of the month are normally front-loaded, so it might be after lunch before I can give it the discussion it deserves.” Assuming my willpower holds. Speaking of business, the email including my schedule has just come through.

“No problem.” Frank yawns. “How fired am I if I take a nap at my desk today instead of going to the pizza thing?”

Pizza thing ? It’s not a pizza thing . It’s the very cute build-your-own heart-shaped pizza activity. “Just don’t miss any hard deadlines, and I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you ask me that.”

“Gotcha.”

“Over and out.”

She does not repeat the farewell.

Which is mildly disappointing until I open my month’s schedule email.

FEbrUARY, written in bubble letters, greets me in shades of soft blue and purple. Little hearts dance around the calendar of tasks, appointments, and meetings. The blocks. They’re color-coded in pinks and blues. The font. It’s cute .

Operation Countdown to Valentine activities headline each day up to the fourteenth, with any additional preparation blocked off prior to the days when such planning is needed, including time for Amber and me to make our Valentine boxes tomorrow night.

I swallow.

Hard.

Then I print off a copy to frame.

Then I poke my nose out of my office and find Bambi grinning deviously at her laptop. She’s writing. I can’t interrupt her while she’s writing. I might accidentally kiss her. Or die. Because the draft she sent me leaves off on a minor cliffhanger—with her female lead dropped into the male lead’s bed —and I know she’s not the type to let anything happen this early in the book, but I am desperate to figure out what her beautiful mind has concocted for the tease.

Shutting the door quietly, I give myself a moment to rest against it, just overwhelmed and… happy …then I force myself back to my cute, cute schedule and get to work.

? ? ?

“Cutie.” Amber nibbles a bite out of her heart-shaped pizza. Since it’s pizza day, we’ve just come through the topping line, waited for the staff Brian brought in to fire our pizzas at the portable open-flame oven, and found a seat in the cafeteria. Everyone around us is adorably munching on their own heart pizzas and chatting together, fully embracing the spirit of Valentine’s, and the spirit of cuteness. Amber, however, is staring dryly at the phone camera I’ve positioned in front of her.

My lips are parted, my mouth hanging open to ask if I can commemorate this adorable occasion with another picture for my collection, but she interrupted me before I got the chance. “Yes?”

“Let’s assume that if I’m not naked, I don’t mind you taking pictures, okay?”

Tiny Cupid wings lift my heart into the sky. “I like that rule.”

She nibbles at a circle of goat cheese and hums, distracted, while I get a few pictures. Given the audience in the cafeteria surrounding us, I refrain from getting multiple angles. Setting my phone down on the table, I reach for my paper plate, take a moment to mourn the death of the adorable cheese-free spinach and artichoke heart pizza, then indulge my first bite.

The few eyes on me shift away, giving into murmurs I can’t make out.

More eyes shift between Amber and I, always seeming to settle on me a moment longer than on her before the talking starts.

I was planning to wait until we got back up to the office to mention the branding package Frank made, but I desperately need a distraction from whatever is going on around us right now. Normally, people avoid me, drop their gazes, stammer apologies. I understand that. I understand the way I come off and look isn’t friendly . I cannot for the life of me understand what there might be to whisper about when all I’m doing is eating lunch with my wife.

“Bambi.”

Amber blinks out of her daze, lifts her attention to me, and tilts her head so her curls tumble just right.

“I read your book.”

She recoils. Her attention darts across every living person in this room. She hisses, “Why are you telling me that now ? Here? Around all these people?”

I can’t make out their conversations. Why would they be able to make out ours? We’re not making it seem like we’re talking about any of them, so they have no reason to be involved with us at all. Stiff, I watch Amber, silent, confused, on edge.

She winces. “Sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just…embarrassing. Should we take our pizza up to the office?”

I would love that. I would love that so much, I am already on my feet before I say, “Yes.”

We do not make it to the office. The second the elevator doors close, I say, “I love your book.”

Amber straightens, mouth full of a bite of pizza. She swallows. “Y-yeah?”

“Every word feels like you. I hear them all in your voice, like you’re reading me the story. I’ve read everything you sent me three times already.”

“Three times—” she blurts. “ When? ”

“Last night. I didn’t sleep much. Neither did Frank.”

“Frank? The…graphic designer queen? That Frank?”

I nod, affirmative, and let the edge of a smile touch my mouth. “There is no other Frank, Bambi. I have to show you what she worked on all night. It’s incredible. I have a list of tropes to highlight in your marketing, and I’ve kept track of quotes you can share in social media posts.”

“Um. Wow.” Her lashes flutter. “That’s…”

The lingering unease works a knot into my chest, and I temper my excitement. “Am I overstepping?”

Her head shakes. “No. I’m just…surprised by your commitment.”

My brow furrows. “Haven’t I always been committed?”

“Yes, in an asylum way. Like with your plans of world domination. It’s just weird that you’re committed to something so…kind.”

Ah, yes. Because I am not kind. At all. “It’s not kindness. It’s bribery. A scheme. I want to prove my worth to you in an effort to convince you to tolerate me for the rest of your life, not just a year.”

The caution in her eyes doesn’t allay, but she pours her focus back into taking another bite out of her pizza as the elevator doors open on our floor. She steps out, mumbling into her cheese. “You’re not supposed to tell me the plot. That’s strictly saved for villain monologue time, when you have me tied to a train track or conveyor belt approaching a giant saw.”

“I’d prefer tying you up in my room.”

Her gait stumbles, and wide eyes slam into me.

I clarify, “In the puddle of my stuffed animals. A unique torture for you, with many photo opportunities for me.” Imagining Amber glaring at me in another blanket prison amid all my stuffed animals brings a smile to my face, and I don’t even think as I march into my office, set my plate down, and sit at my desk to wake up my computer. It is when I find Amber watching me beyond my door that I understand what I just said. Suggesting I’d tie her up in a torture puddle of stuffed animals does not entirely bode well for my grand master plot of keeping her for life. “It was a joke. I wouldn’t do that, Bambi. Don’t worry.”

Her face is a little red when she eases her way over to me. “I wasn’t worried. You’re very… very harmless.”

“Why does that sound almost like an insult?”

She sets her pizza plate down beside mine then pushes herself up onto a clear part of my desk, crossing her ankles as she does. “Don’t worry about it.”

Fine then. I won’t. I will also not stare at her ankles.

I will open a branding package and hold my breath and hope Amber likes it enough to jump into my arms and grace me with the gift of a cuddle.

I might die of happiness if she does.

But I am willing to take that risk.

As the email opens, and I bring the attachment up, my lungs begin to cry for oxygen.

Oxygen that Amber sucks in as both her hands collide with her mouth.

Her logo is a black heart, spilled from an inkwell, raining into a storm of purples, reds, and golds. The theme of ink pouring free into rivers of wonder and tempests of imagination remains consistent throughout the entire page, which depicts the hex codes for the color scheme, primary and secondary fonts, and an array of square social media posts to use as a template going forward.

It is flawless.

I open my arms.

Amber blinks, rapidly, finds me, looks at my arms, and whispers a breathless, “What are you doing?”

I plant my arms firmly back at my sides as a curse slips through my skull. “You hate it?”

“I love it.” Now she’s not breathing. “ I love it . It looks so…so… professional . More real than even holding my other books has felt.” Finally, she inhales, lowers her shaking hands from her mouth. “It’s perfect.”

Of course it’s perfect. It’s her .

I try to remove the disappointment that plagues me in the wake of her loving it but not jumping into my arms.

“May I?” she asks, pointing at the screen.

I shrug. “Of course.”

She’s on my lap in a second.

My heart connects with my uvula as she plants herself on my legs in front of the computer, grabs the mouse, begins zooming in on every detail, and wiggling . There…there most certainly is wiggling. An awful lot of happy, bouncy, adorable wiggling.

On my lap.

I clamp my hand to my mouth as swears rise and fall in my brain, cussing up a storm.

Can I hug her? Can I cop a cuddle? She’s so precious, practically shining. I don’t know what to do with the knowledge that she’s this happy about something I orchestrated. The power will inevitably go to my head.

I should focus on something else.

Like…my pizza.

Unfortunately, in my mass panic, I do not realize that reaching for my pizza puts my arm around Amber until after I have done it. As my fingers grasp the paper plate, I am one deep breath away from hugging her. With all the delicacy of a surgeon playing Operation, I retreat.

Amber leans back before I can unwind my pizza to a location where I can actually hope to eat it.

I am positive she can feel my heart beating through my chest into her back.

The waves of rose floating off her curls intoxicate me.

I’m drunk on the scent when she twists, cups my chin, and kisses my cheek. “Thank you so much, Liam.”

It physically ails me to move, but I just barely tip my attention toward her beautiful, beautiful face, find her lips—which just grazed me—and self-destruct .

“I’m—” Pain. Pain with every word. “—very glad you like it.”

Her eyes shift down, to my mouth, as her smile fades.

For an agonizing moment, I delude myself into thinking she wants to kiss me as badly as I want to throw my pizza across the room, lift her onto my desk, and beg her to let me have her to hold her and keep her—in all the ways a promise on a Taco Bell napkin deserves to be upheld.

The moment passes, abruptly murdered when she stands, snatches her pizza, and says, “Can you forward that email to my fancy new author address, [email protected] ? I’ll start uploading to the accounts I made yesterday!”

My reply leaves me choked, “Okay.”

And then, she’s gone. Outside my office. A world away.

Robbing me of her rose garden scent.

And the heart in my chest.