Chapter 46
Ava
We’re in the kitchen.
I’m making the kids a quick snack. Tortillas. Butter. Cinnamon. Sugar.
Normal.
Harrison, on the other hand, is on speakerphone with Mr. Henry Bloom, who, from what I’ve gathered, is the most expensive attorney in New York City.
Not normal.
“So, let me get this straight,” the man says. His voice is older. Careful. Choosing each word like he’s tiptoeing through a minefield. “The two of you did not intend to get married.”
Harrison’s eyes meet mine for half a second.
“That’s right,” he says.
I try not to bristle. Because he is right. We never meant to get married.
We just sort of… collided into it.
So why does it feel like someone just dragged a blade straight through my chest?
Harrison lifts one brow and looks at me.
“I must’ve gotten the address wrong,” I mutter, mortified.
The thing is, my life is memorizing scripts. Hundreds of pages at a time. Revised, rewritten, replaced overnight. So no, I didn’t write it down.
I thought I could handle it.
Obviously, judging by the rings on our fingers, I was wrong.
“I see,” Mr. Bloom says. “Then why did you take so many photographs? Selfies with the priest and the paparazzo?”
Harrison stares at me.
Not daggers. But definitely not gratitude.
I lift a shoulder, grasping for an explanation. “I thought they were actors. They looked… right. How was I supposed to know?”
“There was no crew,” Harrison points out. “No production. No anything.” He waves his hands like a maniac. “And didn’t I mention that? Because I distinctly remember mentioning that, and I’m not even an actor,” he cries.
“I’m sorry,” I howl back, because apparently, this is what we’re doing. Shouting the roof down over breakfast.
Thank God the kids can’t hear any of this. They’re too busy being pampered by the most attentive glam squad I’ve ever seen.
Hell, Mr. Ricardo Ricci himself is currently turning Snooki into a couture fairy tale fever dream. And as much as I’d love to ask if there’s any chance I can replace my sunglasses, I will not interrupt this moment.
She’s in a one-of-a-kind pink princess dress she will absolutely destroy in under two weeks.
I’m only sad I won’t get to see it.
Harrison and his insufferable glare snaps back to the call. “First things first,” he says. “Is this marriage legal?”
We both hold our breath.
“We’re still confirming,” the attorney says. “Making sure every i is dotted and every t is crossed. The priest appears bona fide. Your photographer, if I can call him that, served as your witness. You were in a registered church. Vows and rings were exchanged.”
“They’re silicone,” Harrison says quickly. “He had a whole box.”
“That’s irrelevant,” the attorney replies. “Did you exchange them?”
Harrison looks at me and wiggles his fingers in the air. “Yup.”
“Perhaps,” the attorney says carefully, “we should take this off speaker. If I could speak to Mr. Evans alone. Without Mrs. Evans.”
Mrs. Evans.
The words hit me like a brick.
Without batting an eye, Harrison sets the phone squarely between us and crosses his arms.
“Anything you can say to me, you can say to Mrs. Evans.”
A small, deeply satisfied smirk curves his mouth.
Really?
We wait. The pause stretches.
“Very well,” the attorney says at last, taking a bizarrely long time before continuing.
“Hear that, Henry?” Harrison cuts in. “That’s the sound of us aging while we wait. Ask your question.”
Mr. Bloom clears his throat.
“Did the two of you consummate the marriage?”
The world tilts.
Harrison looks at me.
I look at him.
And I know he’s mentally counting how many times we consummated the marriage last night. And in how many different ways.
So much so, I feel my body clench, remembering it all.
Silence stretches.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the attorney says calmly.
Harrison swallows hard. “Yes. Yes, we did.”
“Then congratulations, kids. From what I can tell,” Mr. Bloom finishes, “you are, in fact, married.”
We both stare at each other, the what the fuck written all over our faces.
“Do you want to be married?” Mr. Bloom asks.
The question blindsides me.
Do I?
Yes, my traitorous brain answers, clearly swept up in the moment and chugging the Kool-Aid.
Harrison toys with the ring on his finger, studying me. Like he’s waiting for me to say it first. To soften the blow.
Before either of us can answer, Snooki barrels into the kitchen in a cloud of pink tulle. She wraps herself around my waist, arms tight.
“Hungry,” she says playfully.
“I know, baby,” I murmur, rolling up a tortilla and handing it to her.
My eyes never leave Harrison.
His gaze flicks from me, then softens when it lands on Snooki. There’s no way we’re having this conversation in front of her.
“We’ll talk about this later, Henry,” he says into the phone.
“I’m here when you need me,” Mr. Bloom replies, his tone warm and grandfatherly.
The line disconnects.
Harrison scoops Snooki into his arms as she giggles, then looks at me. “Travis is probably headed this way. How long do you need?”
He’s already explained that his boss wants to see us. Or rather, the kids’ uncle. And judging by the level of prep happening in the next room, it might be a surprise party. To the happy couple.
I can’t embarrass him in front of his family.
“I should probably let the glam team get their hands on me,” I say, handing him a few rolled-up tortillas for him and the boys. I know they’re not supposed to eat, but a tortilla won’t kill them. “Can I have thirty minutes?”
He nods. “Take all the time you need.”
He kisses my cheek, and I try not to read too much into it.
Because I have a feeling our conversation with Mr. Bloom isn’t over.