22. Vada
VADA
Moving day turns out to be exactly as chaotic as I expected, but somehow also the most fun I've had in months.
Emory's stuff arrives from LA storage looking like the belongings of someone who's been living out of suitcases for years—a lot of camera equipment, surprisingly few clothes, and approximately zero furniture.
"This is everything?" I ask, looking at the small pile of boxes in our new living room.
"Travel light, live free," Emory says with a sheepish grin. "Though I'm starting to think maybe I took that philosophy a little too far."
"It's fine," I say, though privately I'm wondering how we're going to make this space feel like both of ours when ninety percent of everything is mine. "We can go shopping this weekend."
"I love that you said 'we,'" Maya observes from where she's directing the placement of my couch. "Very domestic. Very couple-y."
"Maya," I warn, but I'm smiling. Having her here to help with the move makes everything feel more official somehow.
"What? I'm just saying, watching you two coordinate this move has been better entertainment than Netflix. The way you automatically divided up tasks, how Emory knew exactly where you'd want the kitchen stuff—it's like you've been living together for years."
She's not wrong. This morning's move has been surprisingly smooth, with Emory and me falling into natural rhythms about who handles what. He's taken charge of all the technical setup—internet, cable, sound system—while I've focused on making the space functional for daily life.
"Speaking of coordination," Emory says, appearing with his laptop, "we should probably set up our office space. I've got a call with the Cabo venue tomorrow, and we'll need to present options to Sarah and Mike by Friday."
"Already?" I ask, feeling that familiar flutter of anxiety mixed with excitement. Our first client is moving fast, which is good for business but nerve-wracking for someone who likes to plan everything months in advance.
"Wedding planning waits for no one," Maya says sagely. "Even destination weddings in paradise."
Two hours later, we've created what might be the most functional home office I've ever seen.
Emory's photography equipment is organized along one wall, my event planning materials are systematically arranged on the other, and we've set up a shared workspace in the middle that actually looks professional.
"This could work," I say, testing out the lighting from different angles.
"This will definitely work," Emory corrects, adjusting his camera setup for optimal video calls. "Look at this natural light, the way the space flows—clients are going to be impressed before we even start talking."
"I hate that you're right," I say, but I'm smiling as I say it.
"Why do you hate it?"
"Because it means Maya was right about us being good at this domestic partnership thing, and I'll never hear the end of it."
"I can hear you," Maya calls from the kitchen, where she's allegedly organizing our dishes but probably eavesdropping. "And I'm always right about these things."
The next few days fall into a routine that feels both new and completely natural.
We wake up together, work together, handle client calls and vendor coordination like we've been business partners for years instead of weeks.
The Cabo project is developing beautifully—we've secured an incredible venue, found vendors who understand our vision, and created a timeline that should give Sarah and Mike exactly the celebration they're dreaming of.
"I have an idea," Emory says Thursday morning, looking up from his laptop where he's been editing location scouting videos. "What if we document our own planning process? Show potential clients what it actually looks like to work with us?"
"Behind-the-scenes content?" I ask, considering the idea. "That could be really smart. People love seeing the process, not just the final result."
"Exactly. Plus, it showcases both our skill sets—your organizational systems, my visual storytelling, how we problem-solve together."
"And it gives us content to post while we're building the business," I add, my marketing brain catching up to the possibilities. "Smart thinking, Wise."
"I have my moments," he says with a grin that makes me want to abandon work entirely and drag him back to bed.
Which, honestly, has been a recurring problem this week. Turns out working from home with someone you're completely attracted to requires more self-control than I anticipated.
"Focus, King," I tell myself, turning back to my vendor spreadsheet.
"Did you just give yourself a pep talk?" Emory asks with obvious amusement.
"Maybe," I admit. "You're very distracting when you're in creative mode."
"Good to know," he says, and something in his tone makes me look up to find him watching me with an expression that definitely isn't professional.
"We have a client call in an hour," I remind him, though my voice comes out slightly breathless.
"Fifty-eight minutes," he corrects, standing up from his desk.
"Emory," I start, but he's already moving toward me with obvious intention.
"Fifty-seven minutes," he says, reaching my chair and spinning it to face him.
What follows is exactly the kind of office romance situation that we definitely should have established ground rules about. But since we're in our own home office and technically our own bosses, I'm calling it a productivity break.
Forty-five minutes later, we're both presentable and professional for our video call with Sarah and Mike, though I catch Emory smirking at me during my presentation about floral arrangements.
"The venue you've selected is absolutely perfect," Sarah says, looking at the photos Emory took during his scouting trip. "It's exactly what we envisioned."
"And the way you've coordinated everything," Mike adds, "it feels like you really understand what we want. Natural, fun, authentic."
"That's always our goal," I say, falling easily into professional mode despite the fact that twenty minutes ago I was decidedly unprofessional with my business partner. "We want your guests to feel like they're part of something special, not just watching a performance."
"Speaking of which," Emory says, "we'd love to create some behind-the-scenes content during your wedding week. Nothing intrusive, just documentation of the real moments—getting ready, family interactions, the spontaneous stuff that makes each celebration unique."
"That sounds amazing," Sarah says with obvious excitement. "Our friends are going to love seeing the authentic version, not just the posed photos."
The call ends with final timeline confirmations and enthusiastic thanks from our clients. As soon as the screen goes black, Emory and I just grin at each other.
"We're actually good at this," I say, still slightly amazed by how naturally we work together.
"We're very good at this," he agrees. "Though I think we need to establish some actual office hours if we're going to maintain any semblance of professionalism."
"Probably," I agree, but I'm already moving toward him again. "Maybe starting tomorrow?"
"Definitely starting tomorrow," he says, pulling me into his lap.
Friday brings our first major test as business partners—a potential client who wants to hire us for a wedding in Napa Valley, but only if we can present a full proposal by Monday.
It's the kind of tight timeline that would normally send me into an anxiety spiral, but somehow working with Emory makes it feel manageable instead of overwhelming.
"Okay," I say, spreading out all our research materials on the dining table. "Venue options, vendor contacts, budget breakdown, timeline proposal. If we divide this up, we can have everything ready by Sunday."
"I love it when you get all organized and focused," Emory says, which is exactly the kind of comment that led to our productivity break yesterday.
"Focus, Wise," I say, pointing my pen at him. "Work time, remember?"
"Right," he agrees, but he's looking at me in a way that suggests professional boundaries are going to be challenging to maintain. "Strictly business until we finish this proposal."
"Strictly business," I confirm, though the way he's watching me make lists is doing things to my concentration that definitely aren't business-related.
The weekend passes in a blur of research, planning, and the kind of collaborative work that makes me understand why some couples go into business together.
We complement each other perfectly—when I get too focused on details, Emory pulls back to the big picture.
When he gets carried away with creative possibilities, I bring him back to practical realities.
"This is really good," I say Sunday evening, looking at the proposal we've put together. "Like, professionally impressive good."
"It should be," Emory says, settling beside me on the couch. "We make a hell of a team."
"We do," I agree, leaning into his warmth. "I never thought I'd enjoy working with someone this much."
"Because you're a control freak who likes to manage every detail yourself?" he asks with obvious affection.
"Exactly," I say with a laugh. "But apparently I like collaborating with you."
"Good thing," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple, "because I've got some ideas about expanding our services."
"Oh no," I say with mock dread. "Ambitious Emory is dangerous."
"Hey, ambitious Vada fell for ambitious Emory once before," he points out.
"That's true," I agree, settling more comfortably against his side. "What are you thinking?"
"What if we don't just do destination weddings? What if we do destination everything? Anniversaries, vow renewals, corporate retreats, family reunions—any celebration that people want documented authentically."
The idea makes my event planner brain light up with possibilities. "That could work," I say slowly. "It would definitely set us apart from traditional wedding planners."
"And it plays to both our strengths," Emory continues, clearly warming to the concept. "Travel logistics, unique locations, authentic storytelling, professional event coordination."
"We'd need more vendors in different locations," I muse, already mentally organizing the systems we'd need. "And probably some kind of travel partnership for accommodations."
"All doable," Emory says confidently. "The question is, are you ready to build something bigger than we originally planned?"
I think about it—the potential growth, the additional complexity, the excitement of creating something entirely our own.
Six months ago, I was burned out from corporate politics and convinced I'd never trust anyone enough to be real business partners.
Now I'm considering expanding a business with someone I've been back in my life for less than a month.
"You know what?" I say, surprising myself with how certain I sound. "I think I am."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," I confirm, turning to face him fully. "Let's build something amazing."
The kiss that follows tastes like ambition and possibility and the kind of partnership I never thought I'd be brave enough to want.
"So," Emory says when we break apart, "should we celebrate our business expansion plans?"
"How did you have in mind?" I ask, though the way he's looking at me suggests I know exactly what he has in mind.
"I'm thinking we could conduct a very thorough review of our bedroom workspace," he says with a grin that makes my pulse spike. "Make sure it meets our professional standards."
"Very thorough," I agree, already standing up and pulling him toward the bedroom. "We should be extremely... detailed in our assessment."
"I like the way you think, King," he says, following me down the hallway.
"I like the way we think together, Wise," I reply, and mean it completely.
Some business partnerships require careful boundary management. Others just require trusting that you're building something worth all the complications.