Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The hotel suite smells like expensive room service and dog treats when we stumble through the door two hours after leaving the studio.
Petunia makes a beeline for her water bowl, Horatio is mercifully quiet in his cage, and I’m ready to face-plant into the nearest horizontal surface and stay there until the internet forgets we exist.
Spoiler alert: the internet is not going to forget we exist.
“You need to see this,” Wyatt says, staring at his phone with an expression somewhere between amazement and horror.
“No, I don’t.”
“Val—”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.” I kick off my shoes—my feet are screaming after two hours in heels—and collapse onto the absurdly comfortable couch. “I’m going to lie here and pretend we’re normal people who don’t have a viral parrot.”
“We’re trending on Twitter. Again.”
“Of course we are.”
“Number two worldwide.”
I lift my head slightly. “What’s number one?”
“Some K-pop star’s birthday.”
“And number three?”
“A political scandal in Brazil.”
I let my head drop back down. “So we’re more important than Brazilian politics but less important than K-pop. That tracks.”
Wyatt sits beside me, his weight shifting the couch cushions. “Want to know what people are saying?”
“Absolutely not.”
“There’s a hashtag.”
“There’s always a hashtag.”
“#YoungDick.”
I groan so loudly that Horatio stirs in his cage. “I hate that bird.”
“You love that bird.”
“I love-hate that bird.” I roll over to face Wyatt, who’s still scrolling through his phone with a bemused expression. “How bad is it?”
“Define bad.”
“Are people calling me a cradle robber again?”
“Some.” He keeps scrolling. “But there’s a surprisingly positive response. A lot of people think it’s hilarious. And—oh, this is good—someone started a petition to get Horatio his own talk show.”
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“Fifteen thousand signatures already.”
“That’s a really terrible idea.”
Wyatt finally sets his phone down and turns to me, his blue eyes soft with something that makes my chest tight. “You were amazing today. You know that, right?”
“I nearly had a panic attack on national television.”
“You handled Grant’s questions with grace. You talked about the rescue work with passion. And when Horatio screamed ‘young dick,’ you made a joke instead of dying of embarrassment.”
“I wanted to die of embarrassment.”
“But you didn’t.” He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You were brave and funny and perfect. I’m proud of you.”
My throat closes up the way it always does when he says things like this. After twenty years with a man who made me feel invisible, Wyatt’s constant affirmation still catches me off guard.
“I’m proud of you too,” I manage. “For not strangling that bird when he made the Fitzgerald comparison.”
Wyatt laughs. “Grant’s macaw recites Shakespeare. Of course it does.”
“Meanwhile, ours has the vocabulary of a drunk frat boy.”
“Our bird is authentic. That’s worth more than Shakespeare.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“I am.” He leans in and kisses me, soft and sweet. “Now, what do you want to do for the rest of the day? We have all of New York at our disposal.”
I glance at the windows, where the city sprawls in all its overwhelming glory. “Can we just… stay here? Order room service? Pretend the outside world doesn’t exist for a few hours?”
“Whatever you want.”
“What I want is to not be recognized by strangers who saw me on television this morning.”
“Fair.” Wyatt grabs the room service menu from the coffee table. “Though I should warn you—Theo texted. Your sons want to FaceTime later to ‘debrief.’”
I groan again. “They watched it, didn’t they?”
“Everyone watched it. Theo says it’s already the most-viewed segment in Good Morning USA history.”
“Of course it is.”
“Dustin says, and I quote, ‘Mom was surprisingly chill for someone whose bird announced her sex life preferences on live TV.’”
“I’m going to murder both of them.”
“Murder!” Horatio contributes from his cage.
“See? Even the bird agrees.”
We order enough room service to feed a small army—steak for Petunia, grilled chicken for Horatio, and what feels like the entire menu for us. By the time it arrives, I’ve changed into yoga pants and one of Wyatt’s t-shirts, and I’m feeling almost human again.
The food is, predictably, excellent. The kind of excellent that makes you wonder why you ever eat anywhere that doesn’t have a Michelin star.
“We should move to New York,” Wyatt says around a bite of his burger. “Live in a penthouse. Become sophisticated urbanites.”
“We have a parrot who screams profanity and a pit bull with anxiety. We’re the opposite of sophisticated.”
“We’d be eccentric. That’s very New York.”
“We’d be broke. Do you know how much a penthouse in Manhattan costs?”
He grins. “My mother would help.”
“Your mother has helped enough.” I steal a fry from his plate. “Besides, I like Washington. I like our house. I like that our neighbor makes pot brownies and our other neighbor has chickens.”
“Pat’s chickens are pretty great.”
“See? We’re already living the dream.”
My phone buzzes on the table. Sadie.
Sadie: I just watched the clip 47 times. FORTY-SEVEN. I’m crying. I’m dead. You killed me.
Valerie: I’m glad my humiliation brings you joy.
Sadie: It’s not humiliation, it’s ICONIC. You’re a goddamn icon.
Sadie: Also Horatio saying “you’re very handsome” in your voice? CHEF’S KISS. Please tell me you didn’t actually say that to Grant.
Valerie: I NEVER SAID THAT.
Sadie: But you thought it?
Valerie: I’m blocking you.
Sadie: No you’re not. You love me. Also check your Instagram. Horatio gained 100k followers in THREE HOURS.
I pull up Instagram out of morbid curiosity. She’s not exaggerating. Horatio’s account—which Theo manages with far too much enthusiasm—has exploded. The comments on the latest post are… a lot.
“THIS BIRD IS MY SPIRIT ANIMAL”
“Horatio 2028”
“Young dick is now part of my daily vocabulary”
“The way he said ‘I love you, Valerie’ in Wyatt’s voice I’M SOBBING”
“Someone give this bird a Netflix special”
And then, buried in the comments, something that makes me pause:
“I just donated $500 to Second Chances Rescue because of this segment. Thank you for using your platform for good.”
I show Wyatt, and his expression softens. “See? It’s working.”
“One donation doesn’t—”
“Val.” He takes my phone and scrolls through the comments. “Look. There are dozens of people saying they donated. To different rescues, to shelters, to fostering programs. This is exactly what we hoped would happen.”
I read through the comments again, slower this time. He’s right. Mixed in with the jokes and the memes and the inevitable trolls, there are people talking about adoption, about fostering, about making donations.
About helping animals.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Maybe it was worth it.”
“Definitely worth it.” Wyatt sets my phone down and pulls me against him. “You know what else is worth it?”
“What?”
“This.” He kisses my temple. “Getting to spend the rest of the day with you. No cameras. No producers. Just us.”
“And a traumatized pit bull.”
“And a profane parrot.”
“We’re really selling the romance here.”
He laughs against my hair. “It’s our kind of romance.”
And he’s right. This is our kind of romance. Chaotic and unexpected and built on a foundation of rescued animals and viral disasters. It shouldn’t work, but it does.
We’re finishing lunch when my phone rings. Not a text—an actual phone call. From a number I don’t recognize with a New York area code.
“Should I answer it?” I ask Wyatt.
“Probably not. It’s probably a journalist.”
“Or a producer.”
“Or someone trying to sell us extended warranties on Horatio.”
I let it go to voicemail. Thirty seconds later, another call from a different number. Then another.
“This is getting weird,” I say.
The fourth call is from a number I do recognize as Janet Montgomery.
“Don’t answer it,” Wyatt warns.
“What if it’s important?”
“She wants us to come back. You know she wants us to come back.”
“Maybe she just wants to say thank you for a successful segment.”
“Val—”
I answer it. “Hello?”
“Valerie! Janet Montgomery. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time?”
“No, we’re just having lunch.”
“Wonderful! Listen, I’m calling because Grant is absolutely over the moon about this morning’s segment. The numbers are incredible—best ratings we’ve had all season. The clip is already viral on every platform, and the response has been overwhelmingly positive.”
“That’s… good?” I’m not sure where this is going, but Wyatt’s expression suggests he knows exactly where it’s going.
“It’s better than good! Which is why I wanted to reach out personally to discuss an opportunity.”
Here it comes.
“What kind of opportunity?”
“Grant would love to have you back. Not just for the holiday special—though that offer absolutely still stands—but for a regular segment. Maybe monthly? ‘Horatio’s Helping Paws’ or something along those lines.
We could spotlight different rescues each time, feature adoptable animals, really maximize the impact. ”
My brain short-circuits. “A regular segment?”
“Monthly appearances. You’d be compensated, of course. And we’d donate to the rescue of your choice for each episode. Plus the exposure for your work would be invaluable.”
Wyatt is shaking his head vigorously. I ignore him.
“That’s… a lot to think about.”
“Of course! I completely understand. Take some time. Discuss it with Wyatt. But Grant really hopes you’ll consider it. The chemistry between you three—you, Wyatt, and Horatio—is television gold.”
“Can I call you back?”
“Absolutely! I’ll send over the details via email. No pressure. Just… think about what we could accomplish together.”
She hangs up, and I stare at my phone like it might explode.
“No,” Wyatt says immediately.
“She didn’t even—”
“I know what she asked. And the answer is no.”
“Monthly appearances would mean—”