Chapter 7 Everything Everywhere Always
Everything Everywhere Always
Henry
BANG BANG BANG. Someone’s fist raps against our door. Beside me, Franki jolts upright from a dead sleep. I lunge from the bed, arm myself, put my glasses on my nose, and approach the door in one liquid motion.
“Henry? I have a problem,” a panicked British voice calls.
I lower my gun. “Elliot, it’s barely dawn. Go away.”
“I would. I want to. Truly, I desperately want to. But if I do, I fear it may be too late to rectify a situation,” he calls.
Franki snaps on the lamp, and I step closer to the door.
“You’re naked,” Franki reminds me.
I glance downward at my half-mast cock I would have put to excellent use if Elliot hadn’t, once more, derailed my plans. “Wait a minute, and keep your mouth shut while you do it. There are other people trying to sleep on this floor,” I snarl through the door.
Franki gives me a look of mild reproach as she retrieves clothes for me and tosses them my way. I drag them on, and she perches on the edge of the bed, sleepy eyed and heart-achingly beautiful with her hair a wild nimbus.
I reach for my phone and snap a photo of her.
She offers me a small smile. “You can’t let anyone see that one.”
I frown. “Because of your nightgown? It covers more than yesterday’s dress.”
She yawns behind her hand. “Because I have bedhead.”
Oh. “I love your hair.”
“Right back at you.”
Another knock sounds, slightly more timid. “I truly do need to speak with you on a matter of some urgency.”
I use my phone to check the hall camera feed, then open the door. “What?”
Elliot, looking even more disheveled than I am, clutches a sheaf of ivory cardstock to his chest. Clearing his throat, he shifts nervously and sends a pathetic look to Ryan, the guard standing beside him.
“You asked to speak to him. Talk,” Ryan says.
Elliot coughs. “May I enter? It’s a matter of delicacy.”
The bathroom door closes behind me, my wife clearly having decided we’re out of bed for the day. I glower at Elliot in retaliation before stepping backward and ushering the two of them inside. “There’d better be a good reason for this visit.”
Elliot flinches as I close the door behind him, his gaze darting to the unmade bed, the large wooden lectern full of drowsing cats who mewed and played all night and are now sleeping peacefully.
“You didn’t want further trouble. And I agreed not to create that trouble, and, I’ll admit that I considered taking off and going home, but I assume you could find me if I did, and if I simply left and—Well, it would look like I’d done it on purpose.”
“What is the problem?” I ask testily.
“The printer here at Villa dei Limoni was on its last doddering legs, which is absurd. Look at this place. One would think having a working printer would be a priority. But it took its final gasp last night, and the only print shop in this tiny village will not open until Monday. And every person I asked for assistance told me to speak to you.”
I give one slow blink.
“The problem, such as it is, is that I may have—”
At my lifted eyebrow, he corrects himself, “—did create a situation prior to our, er, talk. And I didn’t mention it for obvious reasons. I believed I could set it back to rights with no one the wiser, but the printer has died.”
“What exactly did you do?”
His shoulders slump, and he holds out the sheaf of cream-colored cardstock.
Swiping a hand down my face, I accept the papers, then lift my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose before I finish reading the first two lines:
Menu
Created by Chef Phyllis Monroe and Gianna Ludovici exclusively for Villa dei Limoni
Franki exits the bathroom, dressed in comfortable clothing, and joins me, craning her neck to read.
She gasps. “What were you thinking?”
“That it was funny. But, obviously, no one else has a sense of humor here, and I tried to reprint something at least close to the original, but I can’t. This is all we have,” Elliot says.
I have to read it, if only from a vague sense of being unable to look away.
Cold Things First
Raw Fish, Garnished with Several Kinds of Sour Fruit and Oil from a Plant You Cannot Identify (Shockingly, on Purpose)
A Large White Ball of Dairy Containing a Smaller, Wetter Dairy Inside It, Served with Leaves and a Red Fruit That Thinks It’s a Vegetable
Mid-Meal Carbohydrate Phase
Skinny Noodles Coated in Room Temperature Lemon Juice and Cheese Dust
I press my lips together and deliver Elliot my most cutting version of side-eye.
He makes a sound somewhere between a squeak and a “Ha.”
I return my attention to the revised menu he’s created.
Protein Events
A Fish That Used to Swim Happily near This Villa, Now Sadly Roasted and Surrounded by Salty Objects (His Head Was Removed for Your Comfort)
A Young Sheep Seasoned with a Woody Shrub and Served with Whatever Vegetables the Market Had Lying Around
I roll my lips in on each other, close my eyes, and shake my head. This is a disaster.
The Good Part
A Cake Designed Entirely Around the Concept of Lemons, Containing Multiple Textures That All Taste Like Lemon (No Chocolate Will Be Provided. Don’t Bother Asking. I Already Tried.)
A Pastry Filled with Fruit That Is Ripe Right Now and Will Not Be Ripe Tomorrow
A bead of sweat trickles down Elliot’s temple. Franki opens the curtains and the doors to our balcony to let in a breeze.
“You look like you should sit down.” She guides Elliot to the chair in the corner. He stares down at her, his chin wobbling, then he drops to the chair and holds his head in his hands.
Ryan snorts.
I continue.
Liquids
Old White Grape Juice with Yeast
More Yeasty Old White Grape Juice, but More Pretentious
Fermented Red Grape Juice That Has Aged Longer than Roland Spencer’s Second Marriage (Third Time’s the Charm, Right?)
At the dig at Spencer’s uncle’s terrible marital track record, I manfully fake a cough and continue reading.
Groom & Groom Play Favorites
A Sparkling Alcoholic Lemon Drink That Tastes like Sunshine and Over-Confidence Had a Baby on the Dance Floor (Contains Limoncello, Bubbles, and the Urge to Sing Bad Karaoke. Please Resist.)
“I’m sorry,” Elliot says.
I bite my knuckle.
“Truly. I am,” he says.
I hold the stack of menus aloft. “Good. If Dante’s mother sees it, there will be hell to pay.”
He nods miserably.
“Just because it’s funny doesn’t make it right, Elliot,” I say.
Elliot straightens, his eyes brightening. “You think it’s funny?”
“It’s fucking hilarious, but that’s not the important part. What did you do with the original menus?”
“Haaaa . . .” Once more, a strange vocalized wheezing emanates from his throat. “Suffice it to say, they are no longer available.”
Franki props her hands on her hips and scowls. “You couldn’t have held on to the originals?”
His lips purse before he shakes his head jerkily and sniffles.
Franki moves to the cuddle puddle of kittens, selects a little white ball of fur and deposits it in his lap. “Pet a kitty. You’ll feel better.”
Elliot glances up at her. I see the exact moment he considers making a sexual innuendo.
“My wife,” I drawl.
He gulps. “Thank you, Dr. McRae.”
Franki uses her cane to walk to the second armchair and drop into it, waving her hand. “Call me Franki. I only made you call me Dr. because you were such a prat.”
“I’m not a prat now?” he asks hopefully.
“You’re improving. You didn’t try to blame anyone else for what you’d done and came to us for help, even when you were intimidated. That was brave.” Franki nods at Elliot with a maternal look. He sags into the chair in evident relief and pets the cat.
I open my laptop on the small corner desk and find the files I need.
The original menu appears, including the correct names and descriptions, such as: Crudo di Ricciola con Agrumi e Olio al Finocchietto Yellowtail, citrus, wild fennel oil and Burrata di Andria con Pomodori Antichi e Basilico Fresh burrata, heirloom tomatoes, basil.
I like Elliot’s menu better, but it changes nothing. If my personal assistant weren’t getting married today, I’d be calling him to handle this. But he is, and, this time, I’m the acting PA.
This was not the bang I promised my wife. This was not the morning I promised myself. And she’s waiting for us to continue a very important discussion.
Given how knotted my own gut is about it, I can only imagine she feels the same. Elliot’s interruption couldn’t have worse timing.
Franki slides her palms down her thighs. It’s the third time she’s done it this morning. Someone else would think she looks calm and relaxed, but I know my wife.
Leaving the conversation from last night hanging like a shirt in a closet has her as on edge as I am.
I barely slept, thinking about the things I needed to say, and the questions I needed to ask her when she woke.
All of which was supposed to happen after her first orgasm and during breakfast. Instead, here we are: fully dressed at the ass crack of dawn, not a nipple in sight, and that perfect, warm, relaxed morning cuddle fuck obliterated by this douche nozzle’s interruption.
Elliot squirms under the weight of my ferocious frown.
“I’m going to call for breakfast and ask Piper to bring Oliver back. I need my dog, and you and I could both use a cup of tea,” Franki says to me.
Elliot raises his hand. “I’d adore a cuppa right now.”
“Do not test me. There’s a balcony railing ten feet behind you,” I warn softly.
He nods in one jerky dip of his chin. “Understood.”
“Why didn’t you ask the wedding planner for help with the menu?” Franki asks, her voice gentle but exasperated.
“I did. She told me sabotage is above her pay grade. That was your domain,” he says, nodding my way.
Franki cringes. “Rude.”
Also, accurate.
“Give me a minute while I make some calls,” I say.