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“I didn’t exactly give you much to run with outside of asshole boss.”
“I saw pieces, though,” she admitted. “With Mattie and Beau and with other people around the office. With the little things you did for me—guiding me around, helping me out of the car. I was just too busy being mad at you to acknowledge them.”
“Wanting you wasn’t an option,” I admitted, tucking a stray strand of silky hair behind her ear. My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out in case it was Doctor Melligan. The name on the screen made me hesitate. “Odd.”
“What?”
“It’s Royce,” I said, forwarding the call to voicemail. This was Alice’s time. The rest of the world could bugger off. A few seconds later, a text bounced onto my screen, his persistence piquing my interest.
Royce
Hey, Hart? How’s newlywed life?
Greyson
Better than I imagined. I think we’re adopting a puppy.
Royce
*laughing emoji* That didn’t take long. Happy wife, happy life, right?
Greyson
Right.
Royce
That’s why I’m reaching out, actually. Miranda and I were chatting, and she just adores Alice. She hasn’t made a lot of friends in our circle, which has been pretty isolating. I’d love to facilitate a get-together for our ladies. We’d love to have you both over for dinner, or we could spoil a good walk on the green. Sundays are best for us. Run it by your bride and let me know what you have open.
“What’s up?”Alice asked softly, intently studying my perplexed expression.
“They’re inviting us for dinner. Or a round of golf. Evidently, Miranda adores you.”
“Yes, well, Iamadorable,” she teased flatly, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder.
“Well, I’m aware of that,” I said, pressing another kiss to her forehead and freezing when Chip stirred inside the cocoon of her crossed legs.
“What, you two never hang out?”
“Hang.Out?” I questioned sardonically, earning the most impressive eye roll known to man.
“Yes, Heartless, hang out. Get together. Enjoy a friendship.”
“No,” I answered honestly. “People value what I can give them more than my conversation.” My phone buzzed again, and I glanced down at another message.
Royce
Miranda would like me to relay that if weekdays are easier, the kids go down by seven, and we have the patio to ourselves.
I’ve told her the nanny can put them down, but she insists on doing it herself. Let me know.
“I certainly don’t envy havingyour schedule dictated by a tiny person’s sleep schedule.”
“What?” She leaned over my shoulder to glance at the screen.
“Coordinating bedtimes,” I explained, turning the phone so she could thumb through the exchange.
“Don’t ever want your own kids?” she hedged before her breath caught. Scrambling to explain, she said, “I mean, with the right person. Not that we need to think about that. We’re just…”