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She’d waved us goodbye without so much as a glance and run off to join her classmates and teachers. It was Dylan who was a hot mess.
“I’m going to miss her so much,” my fiancée hiccupped on the floor.
I followed her brother’s suggestion and hurled her up into my arms. A mental breakdown on the steps of the most prestigious preschool in Manhattan was not a great look.
“You’re going to be fine,” I muttered into her ear, carrying her honeymoon-style to the car while she burst out in another bout of weeping. Dylan was a tough cookie. Watching her crumble like that was jarring, to say the least. “May I remind you, you’ll be busy reading through books and studying your hot ass off?” I tried to avert her thoughts from Gravity.
“It’s February. I have six months before my semester starts,” she moaned into my neck, lolling her head back and forth.
“Good thing you have the wedding of the century to plan, then,” I grumbled. “That’ll keep you busy.”
Even though I was now richer than God, Dylan had turned out to be a thrifty bride. She was planning the wedding for August so she could focus on her studies later. She’d been accepted to Fordham’s premed program and was over the goddamn moon. She’d also moved out of Row’s apartment and up into my penthouse with Gravity the day I asked her to marry me for real, but she still took care of Row’s apartment for free, because she was a better human than I was.
“The wedding’s already planned. All we have to do is show up,” Dylan protested as I tucked her into the passenger seat.
“That, I can do.” I rounded the car and joined her in the driver’s seat. “Can I take you out on a date?” I turned to wink at her.
She checked the time on her phone. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the office?”
Ever since we soft-launched App-date three months ago and quite literally broke the App Store (and the internet, several times), I’d had my hands full and had been working fifteen-hour days. Fake dating had turned out to be lots of people’s favorite trope, because we offered a hundred bucks’ worth of dinner vouchers to any two users who sent us proof of marriage or engagement as a result of the app, and the couples just kept on coming, to the point that we’d had to start striking deals with restaurant chains.
“No. I’m supposed to be inside you,” I corrected her.
“Let’s skip to the food part then.” She rubbed her palms together. “I’m ready.”
“Nah. I wanna wine you and dine you and show you how much you mean to me.”
“Rhyland.” She sighed. “We’re getting married in a few months. I’m living off boiled eggs, coffee, and Pinterest inspo at this point. What makes you think I want to be wined and dined?”
“This right here.” I pulled out my phone and showed her a screenshot of a social media post I’d found of hers, dated back to when she was twenty. She was still with Tucker back then—yes, the same motherfucker who was serving four years in prison these days—and living in Maine.
Dylan squinted, reading the caption out loud. “‘My actual dream is to eat my weight in pasta alla ruota.’”
I raised my eyebrows meaningfully.
She laughed. “Rhyland, I’m supposed to get into a wedding dress next week for measurements.”
“And I’m supposed to pretend I don’t want as much of you as possible inside it?”
“That is a very kind way to tell me you’d love me in all sizes.”
“It’s the truth,” I said dryly. “And I want all your dreams to come true, so that’s where we’re going.”
But what Dylan didn’t know was that I was taking her to a restaurant downtown, where her brother would be waiting. Cal too. And Kieran. Her mom and Marty. Everyone.
She needed emotional support on this first day of Gravity going to school, so I’d set it up for her.
As it turned out, it was my shitty upbringing that drove me to want better for my own family. With us, things would be different. We would give our kids all the love and attention they needed and spare some for any friends who might have it tough at home too.
When Gravity came back from school, she’d have all her family celebrating this new milestone in her life.
“I can’t believe you took some time off and we’re not spending it having sex,” Dylan sulked.
At least I’d gotten her to stop crying about Gravity.
“Can we at least have a quickie in the restaurant’s restroom?”
“Not if you don’t want me and your brother to kill each other,” I muttered.