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“Yeah.” Except for Fletcher, of course.
That was probably why he’d waited until after the ceremony to text his business partner, informing him of his nuptials afterthe fact.
He’d gotten a string of head-exploding emojis.
Then fifteen minutes later he’d received another one.
Fine. Problem solved. Congratulations.
“Hey.”
Garrett raised his head. As anticipated, Emma was dressed for work.
He suppressed a sigh. At least she was wearing the new parka he’d gotten her. Fall in San Diego wasn’t exactly demanding, but the wind on the waterfront could be biting.
“Good morning,” he said. He pushed a plate forward. “Mohammed made you a cheese frittata.”
Lighting up, Emma hopped onto the barstool at the end of the kitchen island. She closed her eyes at the first bite and swayed, making happy little noises.
“Dear Lord. How does he do this to eggs?”
Her sounds of pleasure were both a blessing and a curse.
“I asked him once. He said the egg was the ultimate challenge for a chef. Lots of people eat eggs in all sorts of ways. But to take an egg and make it an experience—that’s true talent.”
She hummed, her mouth too full to speak. “You should give him a raise.”
“He makes a very healthy salary. I assure you.”
Her ponytail was coming undone. A lock of it was flipping forward until it was almost to her mouth. Should he tuck it behind her ear so she wouldn’t get egg in it? Or would that be weird?
Yeah, it would be weird. Which is why he was kicking himself for doing it anyway.
Emma’s breath hitched, but Garrett just charged ahead, carrying on as if he wasn’t a giant freak. “You’re on till four today, right?”
She nodded, taking one of the glasses of fresh-squeezed OJ to wash down her eggs.
“Good, good. By the way, your credit and debit cards are here,” he said, taking them out of his pocket and sliding them across the kitchen counter to her.
Emma blinked. “My what?”
“Your Amex Black and the Chase Sapphire. They’re already set to autopay from your stipend,” he said, nodding at the credit cards. “For expenses.”
Her lips pursed in confusion. “You do remember the stipend you get?” he reminded her.
“Stipend?”
“Five thousand, paid out every week.” He frowned at her deer-in-the-headlights expression. “It was in the prenuptial contract.”
“It was?” Emma gasped. “I get five thousand everyweek?”
He wiped his mouth before putting his glass and plate in the dishwasher. Emma looked like he’d just asked her for a kidney.
“You don’t have to spend the stipend if you don’t want to,” he pointed out. “You can invest it. Or send some home.”
She toyed with her fork. “I thought when you said I could send my wages home, that would be it. That was more than generous.”
Not really.He knew how much she made an hour.