Chapter Eleven
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Romance is black gold and blue.
Malcolm
“You know, most men would have hickies after a romantic excursion, not handprint bruises around his neck,” Iverson, my endearing and not even a little bit creative younger brother, says minutes after I’ve walked into his Tudor-style mansion home and found him in his very, very blue home office.
After the magical past few days I’ve experienced, all I want to do tonight is head home and reheat a pizza, but a pizza I do not have at home.
Hence, my visit here, to see my brothers—one blood, the other soul.
Shoulder braced against the door jamb of my blood brother’s office, I arch a brow.
“Most men aren’t dating women who want to kill them.
But I’m actually fairly proud of her for taking the hands-on initiative after she attempted to step back in the name of ‘self-preservation’.
Can you imagine my disappointment when she told her ‘contact’ that she preferred the role of accomplice to that of assassin? ”
Iverson regards me dryly. “I much prefer a different sort of love story. After all, ivy is designed to do the choking, while maples flourish under the constriction with beauty and grace. As nature intended.”
Since when does Ivy speak in prose? “Is your fianceé okay?”
“It’s a figure of speech.” He waves a flippant hand. “My fianceé is flourishing, is the point, without the need of unpleasant bruises upon my neck.”
Right. Because bruises on his neck would cover his extremely professional snake tattoo. I smile. “What an odd thing to say.”
“Her fingertips grazed your carotid.” He stares at me, brow low. “With some accuracy.”
My lips hook up further. “Yes. I know. I almost passed out.”
Ivy sighs. “Well, as long as it was only almost.”
“It was.” Quite entirely close to nearly, though. For the sake of my poor dear brother’s nerves, I think I’ll refrain from mentioning that my next plan involves the potential I get stabbed in an alleyway. I say, “Being almost suffocated to death is very romantic.”
“You’re like a Rouge novel come to life. And not in a cute Flag Day ball sort of way.”
“Speaking of the Flag Day—”
“Stop,” Iverson interjects moments before his roommate—Birch’s sister and the woman Ivy’s planning to marry on what he has dubbed the most romantic holiday of the year—brushes past me to enter the room.
“No,” she replies. “I need your fountain pens.” Fully neglecting my brother’s right to personal space, the woman rummages through his desk and ignores my presence entirely.
Which works for me. It’s always awkward to admit that I can never remember her name even though we grew up together in the same building.
Something in my skull has always just omitted information about Ivy’s girl.
Because…
I drag my attention to my brother, who’s about ninety-nine percent less abrasive with the woman here. There’s a softness to him that consumes the acid and the ire, transforming it into snow candy.
…yeah. She’s his. So what would she have to do with me?
Concern softens Iverson’s features as he murmurs, “What’s happened to your fountain pens?”
“I had to sacrifice the ink to a stack of parchment,” his wife-to-be replies, distracted with her search. “Replacement ink won’t come for another week. I need yours.”
Minutes pass while Iverson moons over her fevered search, then he recalls my existence, opens the correct drawer, and hands her a cup of fountain pens.
Her responding smile turns him into liquid before she flits off, a tornado in her precision of decimating my brother while leaving me untouched by even a breeze.
Clearing my throat, I beckon my poor besotted baby bro’s mind out of its goo pile. “So?”
“So…what?” Ivy blinks away his stupor, frowning in bemusement at me.
“Azalea’s been researching decorating companies capable of bringing your vision to life, but recently—before our romantic interlude—she mentioned how we need to prioritize the invitations, which leads to multiple concerns.
First, we don’t have the invite list from you yet.
Second, she doesn’t know it’s a wedding yet. And, third, Birch.”
“First, the list is our family, the Valor family, and whatever work connections you feel should be there for the sake of not offending any idiots who believe us to be friends. No use tanking our business because some old man who hasn’t changed his stance on manners since 1965 feels slighted at being left out. ”
“A professional assessment.” One he so rarely takes.
Ivy grunts. “Second, I don’t see how Maple not knowing it’s a wedding matters.”
Right, yes. Because that doesn’t matter. “Azalea needs to know it’s a wedding so that the invites can reflect it’s a wedding when she works very hard to put them together and send them.”
“Oh.” Iverson recalls that other women exist. Specifically the only other one, apart from our mother, who matters at all.
“Right. Azalea. The other she that we would be discussing. Of course. Sure, tell her, but if she tells my bride, then you will not be the only one with bruises upon your neck.” He smiles pleasantly, canines on display.
In return, I hum. “She can keep secrets. We already know that. Given that she’s not exactly a low-tier assistant. Keeping secrets is in her job description.” My head tilts. “So I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t suggest anyone else’s hand might find itself around her neck—for literally any reason.”
Indignant, he sniffs. “As I said, ivy chokes. It is the way of nature. Ivy also gives way to stone, though, should you wish to build your fortress around her. I will heed your judgment.”
“Noted.”
Moving on, Iverson nods. “As for Birch, what about him?”
“I need to know what the entrée options are so they can be included in the invitations. You mentioned he’d be planning the food when you asked for my help with this…” Grave negligence of anything resembling a boundary. “…wedding.”
“Ah. I need to talk to him about that, actually. I haven’t told him yet that he’s not the one catering.”
“Well.” I push off the wall. “In that case, there’s no better time than now to watch those fireworks go off.”
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Like a haughty prince meeting the one who actually owns the castle his kitchen lives in, Birch lifts his nose an entire centimeter higher when Iverson and I enter the chef’s domain.
Immediately offended, my little brother crosses his arms. “If you don’t lose your attitude, I’m shearing a hundred bucks off your Christmas bonus. For the first minute. Every minute after that you lose another fifty.”
Birch’s nose lowers, though his jaw tightens. Then he sees me, and all his insubordination washes away as he retrieves a metal bowl from the industrial-sized fridge. All pleasant, he asks, “Do you need something from me, Maleficent?”
“There are several things I need from you.” Iverson slides onto a stool at the counter and sighs, nose scrunching when he adds, “Unfortunately.”
Birch’s mood levels, and he drops his chilled bowl against the dark marble countertop. It clatters while he snatches a whisk from a drawer. “I don’t care how much you pay me, I cannot make a croquembouche in three hours. It is physically impossible.”
While I settle in on a different stool to enjoy the explosions, Iverson’s eyes narrow. “I wasn’t going to ask for a croquembouche.”
This time, no doubt.
“And your inability to speak respectfully to your employer has just lost you money.”
Birch glances my way, for help possibly, but then his attention catches on my throat. His whisk lifts, finger outstretched. “Uh…”
“It’s romance,” I say. “Romance is black and blue.”
“Actually,” Iverson cuts in, “it’s gold and blue. Which brings us to the point.”
Birch says nothing, funneling his irritation into his whisk as he turns cream into whip.
“I need you to plan a menu for a ball. There should be a sit-down dinner as well as hors d’oeuvres. Drinks, too, if you can manage it, but I am not against hiring an expert for you to work with on that end. I expect this to be done as soon as humanly possible, and by that I mean you have one week—”
“Three days,” I mention. “If at all possible. Azalea’s rather on edge about making sure invites are sent soon.” Though, to be fair, she’s rather on edge about a lot of things at the moment, but I would certainly prefer if they’d all involve solely me.
Ivy smiles with gleeful malice. “Even better. Three days, Birch. The ball will be on June 14th. Flag Day and romance are the themes. As mentioned, blue and gold are the colors. If you do not believe yourself capable of completing this task, let me know now so that I may find someone who is.”
Beyond the counter between us, dairy splatters the kitchen floor as Birch’s bowl drops, clangs, and rolls. The whisk shuffles after it, tanging against tile.
“A ball?” Birch breathes. “A ball for me to cater?”
Heh.
Joy limitless, I behold the sparks as they light fresh bombs. I adore Birch for around seventeen different reasons. High on the list sits his tendency to little brother my little brother, thus creating a sort of karmic justice.
Iverson stands and points a long, authoritarian finger at Birch. “Stop that,” he orders. “There will be none of that in front of me. You’re not catering. You’re planning the menu.”
“A ball,” Birch repeats, eyes shiny with unshed emotion. “I take back all of the horrible things I’ve said about you.”
“Please don’t,” Ivy grunts. “And stop emoting so hard. It’s giving me heartburn.”
“I’ll make something low-fat and non-acidic for dinner, then,” he replies. “Or I’ll heat something low-fat and non-acidic from the freezer, more likely. I’m taking the night off from cooking. I need the time to plan for a ball.”
“You do not know how blessed you are to be your sister’s only brother,” Ivy declares. “She’s doing the bulk of the heavy lifting in stopping me from strangling you right now.”
“I’ve just learned that Ivy’s a big fan of strangling, so you may want to tread at least a little lightly,” I point out.
“By the way, while you’re getting that low-fat, non-acidic dinner from the freezer, would you mind grabbing me a few pizzas?
I’ve run out, and I probably need to head back home and start heating one up if I’m going to eat tonight.
” Grazing my neck with a fingertip, I murmur, “It’s been a long day. ”
Birch jumps, abandoning his grand ballroom fantasies—and the mess of almost-whip strewn across the floor—to produce no less than ten olive pizzas from an industrial freezer stacked two deep and at least twenty high with them. “If I had known you were low, I would have sent some over,” he fusses.
Iverson grimaces, his disgust a palpable presence in the lines of his frown, as I take a modest three from the presented stack.
Birch scowls, the expression foreign on his sweet, sweet face. He adds the remaining seven to my stack with a great heft.
“Birch,” I murmur, tenderly.
“You’re hungry,” he says, mouth set.
“I need a reason to visit more often.”
He softens, sniffs, and takes eight away.
The reasons I love Birch grow ever larger. Turning to my less friendly brother, I beam. “Well, I’ve obtained what I came for. So.”
“So,” Ivy repeats, nose wrinkled at my dinners for the next few days. “Why don’t you take your poison back to your would-be assassin? Revenge and the removal of offending vegetables from my presence. Everyone wins.”
“Poison.” I hum, thoughtful as I twist on my heel to begin the trek out of the kitchen. “An excellent idea. For after the attempted stabbing.” Perhaps I’ll let “Junction” supply Azalea with poison, then maybe I could coax her into cooking with me.
“Attempted stabbing?” Birch gasps.
“The poison is for her,” Iverson snaps, exasperated.
I laugh, because wouldn’t that be lovely? I’m certain sharing poison is somewhere near strangulation on the romantic spectrum.
Birch wheezes distress as I bid my goodbyes, exit the kitchen, stray up the hall, and find myself stepping into a warm and cloudy night. Beyond the thick clouds, a waxing crescent moon hangs low in the sky, shedding wisps of light across the ivy-scattered walls of my brother’s home.
Letting my eyes close, I breathe in the warmth, feeling the chill of my frozen dinner against the palm of my hand.
Today was…good.
Very good.
I can hardly wait to see where the rest of this game takes us.