20. Vada
VADA
The sound of Emory making coffee in my kitchen at six AM should not be as sexy as it is, but here we are. I lie in bed listening to him move around my space like he belongs there, and honestly, it's doing things to my heart that I wasn't prepared for.
"Morning, beautiful," he says, appearing in the doorway with two mugs and hair that's doing that thing where it sticks up in the back. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than okay," I say, accepting the coffee and trying not to stare at his chest. The man sleeps shirtless, which is both a blessing and a curse for my concentration levels.
"Good, because Maya texted at five-thirty," he says, settling beside me with his own mug. "Apparently she's found three apartments for us to look at today, and she's very excited about something called 'exposed brick and natural light.'"
"She texted you directly?" I ask, surprised.
"Yeah, she got my number yesterday," Emory grins. "I think she's adopted me as her new project. Should I be worried?"
"Terrified," I say with a laugh. "Maya in full planning mode is a force of nature."
The truth is, having Maya get excited about Emory moving here makes this whole thing feel more real. She's protective of me in the best way, and if she's already texting him apartment listings, it means she approves. Which shouldn't matter as much as it does, but it totally does.
"So, apartment hunting," Emory says, stretching in a way that makes me momentarily forget what we're talking about. "Any preferences? Deal breakers?"
"Good kitchen, decent space for a home office, somewhere that won't make you feel trapped," I say, then catch myself. "I mean, assuming you want to look for a place together. We don't have to—"
"Vada," he interrupts, setting down his mug to cup my face in his hands. "I want to look for a place together. I want to build something with you. Stop overthinking this."
"I'm not overthinking," I protest weakly.
"You're definitely overthinking," he says, kissing me softly. "Which is one of the things I love about you, but in this case, it's unnecessary. We're doing this."
The certainty in his voice settles something in my chest that I didn't realize was tight. Sometimes I forget that not everything has to be analyzed to death.
Two hours later, we're standing in the first apartment Maya found—a gorgeous two-bedroom in the Pearl District with exposed brick walls, huge windows, and rent that makes my eyes water slightly.
"This is beautiful," I say, running my hand along the brick wall in what would be the living room.
"Very you," Emory agrees, though I catch him glancing at the information sheet Maya's waving around. "The light's incredible."
"And look at this kitchen," Maya says, practically bouncing with excitement. "Island seating, gas range, enough counter space for both of you to cook together. It's perfect for domestic bliss."
"Maya," I warn, but she's clearly just getting started.
"Plus, the office space upstairs would be ideal for content creation," she continues, leading us up a spiral staircase to a loft area that overlooks the main living space. "Natural light, great acoustics, room for all your camera equipment."
Emory stands in the middle of the loft space, turning in a slow circle, and I can see him mentally arranging his setup. "This could actually work really well," he says, and something about the way he's already visualizing it makes my heart skip.
"What do you think?" I ask as we explore the master bedroom, which has windows on two walls and more of that gorgeous exposed brick.
"I think it's perfect," he says honestly. "I also think it's probably way more than I should be spending right now."
There it is—the financial reality that's been lurking under all the romantic planning. Travel blogging might look glamorous on social media, but I know from our conversations that the income can be unpredictable.
"What if we split it proportionally?" I suggest carefully. "Based on income? I've got steady event planning clients, so I can handle a bigger share until your travel business picks up more."
Emory's jaw tightens slightly, and I immediately worry I've said the wrong thing. "I don't want you supporting me, Vada."
"It's not supporting you," I say quickly. "It's investing in us. In what we're building together."
"Still feels weird," he admits, though I can see him considering it.
"Look," Maya interjects with the bluntness that's her trademark, "you guys are planning to work together professionally, right?
So think of it as a business investment.
Shared office space, shared living space, shared everything.
Emory brings travel expertise and content creation skills, Vada brings event planning knowledge and steady income. It's a partnership."
Leave it to Maya to find the practical angle that makes everything make sense.
"When you put it like that," Emory says slowly, "it sounds less like charity and more like smart business planning."
"Exactly," I say, relieved he's not going to let pride get in the way of something good.
The second apartment is smaller and cheaper, but it lacks the character of the first place. The third is in a great neighborhood but has no natural light and a kitchen the size of a closet.
"So, the Pearl District place?" Maya asks as we sit in a coffee shop afterward, comparing notes.
"It felt right," I say, looking at Emory for confirmation.
"It felt like home," he agrees. "Though I should probably mention that my credit isn't exactly stellar right now. Travel lifestyle and inconsistent income don't impress landlords."
"Good thing my credit is excellent," I say with a grin. "Corporate job had its perks."
"You'd really do that? Put the lease in your name?"
"Emory," I say, reaching across the table to take his hand, "we're in this together. That means all of it—the good stuff and the practical stuff."
The relief on his face makes my chest warm. I'm starting to understand that his travel lifestyle, while Instagram-perfect, comes with a lot of financial stress that he's gotten good at hiding.
"Okay," he says. "Let's do it. Let's get an apartment together."
"YES!" Maya practically shouts, causing several other coffee shop patrons to turn and stare. "Sorry," she says at normal volume, "I'm just very invested in your happiness."
The lease application process takes most of the afternoon, but by evening we're walking back into my current apartment with move-in paperwork and a bottle of champagne Maya insisted on buying to celebrate.
"To new beginnings," Maya says, raising her glass once we've opened the bottle.
"To figuring it out as we go," Emory adds.
"To not overthinking everything," I say, which makes them both laugh.
"Cheers to that," Emory says, clinking his glass against mine.
After Maya leaves—with strict instructions about packing timelines and moving truck reservations—Emory and I settle onto my couch with the rest of the champagne and the apartment paperwork spread out on the coffee table.
"We just got an apartment together," I say, still processing the magnitude of what we've done.
"We did," he agrees, pulling me closer. "Feeling good about it?"
"Feeling terrified and excited and happy all at once," I admit. "You?"
"Same," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Though mostly excited. This feels like the beginning of something really good."
"Speaking of which," I say, reaching for my laptop, "I got an email today from a couple in Seattle who want to hire us for their destination wedding in Cabo next spring."
"Us?" Emory asks, sitting up straighter.
"They specifically mentioned seeing our social media content from Paradise Cove and wanting that same energy for their celebration," I explain, pulling up the email. "Full documentation, behind-the-scenes content, authentic storytelling. They're willing to pay really well for it."
Emory reads over my shoulder, and I can feel his excitement building as he processes the details. "This is exactly what we talked about," he says. "Travel meets event planning, authentic experience documentation."
"The question is, are we ready to take on a client together?" I ask. "I mean, we just got an apartment. Maybe we should figure out living together before we try working together."
"Or maybe," Emory says, turning to face me fully, "this is the perfect opportunity to test whether we're as good a team professionally as we are personally."
"You think we should say yes?"
"I think we should say hell yes," he grins. "But only if you're comfortable with it. This is your business, Vada. I don't want to mess anything up for you."
The concern in his voice makes me realize how much trust this requires from both of us. I'm letting him into my carefully built business, and he's trusting me with his professional reputation.
"I want to do this," I say, surprising myself with how certain I sound. "I want to build something with you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," I confirm, already mentally planning how we'd approach the project. "Though we should probably establish some ground rules about mixing business and personal life."
"Probably," he agrees, though he's looking at me in a way that suggests ground rules might be challenging to maintain. "What did you have in mind?"
"Professional communication during work hours, separate roles and responsibilities, clear decision-making process," I list off, falling back into my event planning organization mode.
"Very thorough," Emory says with obvious amusement. "What about the no-kissing-during-client-meetings rule?"
"Is that going to be a problem for you?" I ask, trying to look serious.
"Might be," he admits, leaning closer. "You're very distracting when you're in professional mode."
"Emory," I start, but he's already kissing me, soft and sweet and completely destroying my ability to think about business protocols.
"Sorry," he says against my lips, not sounding sorry at all. "What were you saying about ground rules?"
"I was saying," I manage, though my brain is definitely not focused on business anymore, "that we should probably start with clear boundaries."
"Very clear boundaries," he agrees, his hands sliding under my shirt in a way that's the opposite of professional.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about," I say, though I'm making no effort to stop him.
"We'll figure it out," he says, kissing his way down my neck. "Right now, I'm off the clock."
Later, as we're lying in bed with champagne glasses on the nightstand and apartment paperwork scattered on the floor, I catch myself thinking about how natural this feels.
Not just the physical part, though that's definitely working out well, but the whole thing.
Planning together, making decisions together, building something together.
"What are you thinking about?" Emory asks, running his fingers through my hair.
"Just that this feels right," I say honestly. "All of it. The apartment, the business collaboration, the domestic stuff. Even when it's scary, it feels right."
"Good scary or bad scary?"
"Good scary," I say without hesitation. "Like, jumping-off-a-cliff-but-knowing-you-can-fly scary."
"I like that kind of scary," he says, pulling me closer. "Especially when I'm jumping with you."
"Cheesy," I say, but I'm smiling as I say it.
"You love it," he replies with confidence that's not wrong.
As we drift off to sleep in my bed—soon to be our old bed in our old apartment—I think about how much my life has changed in just two weeks. From attending my ex-boyfriend's wedding as a single guest to planning a move with the man I'm pretty sure I want to marry.
Some changes happen slowly, and some happen all at once in a tropical paradise. The trick is being brave enough to see them through.