Chapter 1 #2
Wyatt manages to extract us from the crowd with a combination of charm and strategic maneuvering that would impress a Secret Service agent.
We make it to the car service Darcy arranged, collapse into the back seat, and sit in shell-shocked silence as the Manhattan skyline appears through the windshield.
“That went well,” Wyatt says.
I stare at him.
“No one got hurt,” he amends. “And the kids seemed happy.”
“The show is tomorrow morning.”
“Yep.”
“Live television.”
“Yep.”
“With that.” I point at Horatio’s carrier, from which triumphant cackling is emerging.
Wyatt reaches over and takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine.
“Whatever happens tomorrow, we’re doing it for the right reasons.
For the rescues. For animals like Petunia who need homes and help.
” He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles.
“And whatever chaos that bird causes, we’ll handle it together. Like we always do.”
I look at my husband—this man who pursued me despite every reason we shouldn’t work, who looks at me like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world even when I’m covered in airport stress sweat and haven’t slept properly in days.
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you too.” His smile is soft, private, the one he saves for moments when it’s just us. “And I love our disaster of a bird. And our anxiety-prone dog. And this crazy life we’ve built.”
“I love you!” Horatio shrieks, perfectly mimicking Wyatt’s voice.
We both laugh, the tension finally breaking.
“See?” Wyatt says. “He’s practically trained.”
“Granola enema!” Horatio adds.
“We’re doomed,” I say, but I’m smiling now. “Completely, utterly doomed.”
“Doomed together.” Wyatt squeezes my hand. “That’s the best kind.”
Outside the car window, New York City sprawls in all its chaotic glory—millions of people going about their lives, completely unaware that tomorrow morning, one foul-mouthed parrot is about to shake things up in ways none of us can predict.
I lean my head against Wyatt’s shoulder and close my eyes.
Whatever happens next, at least I’m not facing it alone.
The Peninsula Hotel is obscenely beautiful—the kind of place where the towels are fluffier than my mattress at home and the minibar probably costs more than my monthly grocery bill.
Darcy booked us a suite with a view of Fifth Avenue and enough space for Petunia to stretch out and Horatio to have his own corner far from the bedroom.
“Your mother is too generous,” I say, wandering through the rooms while Wyatt tips the bellhop.
“She feels guilty about the rally.” He comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist as I stand at the window. The city glitters below us, a universe of lights and movement. “She thinks she owes us for making her look human to the voters.”
“Horatio crashed your father’s reelection event and screamed obscenities on live television.”
“And Dad’s approval ratings went up twelve points.” Wyatt presses a kiss to my neck. “Humanized him. Made him relatable. People loved it.”
“People are insane.”
“People are wonderful.” His hands slide up my sides, leaving trails of warmth. “And speaking of wonderful, we have approximately twelve hours before we need to be at the studio, and I can think of several ways to spend them.”
My breath catches as his lips find the sensitive spot below my ear. “We should probably go over the segment notes—”
“We’ve gone over them seventeen times.”
“And practice what Horatio is supposed to—”
“Horatio is going to do whatever Horatio wants. We both know that.” His hands find the zipper at the back of my dress. “Right now, I want to focus on my wife. Who looks incredibly sexy when she’s stressed.”
“That’s concerning.”
“It’s honest.” The zipper slides down, slow and deliberate. “You’re always beautiful. But there’s something about the way you look when you’re worried, all fierce and determined, that makes me want to—”
“Pecker!” Horatio screams from his corner.
We both freeze.
“We need to cover his cage,” I say.
“Already on it.”
Wyatt crosses the room in three long strides, throws the blackout cloth over Horatio’s travel cage with practiced efficiency, and is back at my side before I can blink.
“Where were we?” he murmurs, his hands resuming their exploration.
“You were telling me what you want to do.”
“Right.” He turns me to face him, his blue eyes dark in the low light. “I was saying that when you’re stressed, all I can think about is making you feel better.”
“And how exactly do you plan to do that?”
His smile is devastating. “Let me show you.”
He kisses me then—deep and thorough and full of promise—and I let myself forget about television appearances and profane parrots and the chaos that surely awaits us tomorrow. Right now, there is only this. Only him. Only the life we’ve built against all odds.
My dress pools on the floor. His shirt follows. And somewhere in the background, muffled by his cage cover, Horatio mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Happily ever after, motherfuckers.”