Page 73 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“She signed the waiver,” Olivia says grimly. “In gold ink. With a heart over the ‘i.’”

***

At the end of the week, Celeste sends an embossed envelope to the office. Inside: a single card:Golden Boy, Luca had great shoulders but talked about crypto. I faked food poisoning. Thank you for the thrill. – C.P.S.If you ever need a scandal to redirect the press again, just leak my next date. I guarantee it’ll go viral.

And I swear, for just a second, Olivia actually smiles. And I, God help me, might actually look forward to her next date.

39

MARGOT

The nursery looks like a Pinterest board exploded in our penthouse. I’m standing barefoot on the pale wood floors, holding a swatch of wallpaper with tiny watercolor foxes wearing bow ties. Grayson is crouched on the opposite end of the room, trying, and failing, to assemble a mid-century-modern crib that claimed to be “easy to install.”

“I don’t think this piece goes here,” he says, holding up what might be a support beam, or a decorative armrest, or a prop from a Scandinavian horror film.

“I told you we should’ve paid for the assembly service,” I murmur, tapping my lip with the wallpaper sample. “We are not those people who just know how dowels work, Grayson. We're not rugged.”

“We run a multi-million-dollar company. I think we can manage a crib.”

“You also once locked yourself out of your own office because you thought the biometric scanner was a snack dispenser.”

“It was one time,” he says flatly. “And in my defense, it was next to a vending machine.”

I lower the fox wallpaper. “So you thought the hand scanner was giving out...what, protein bars?”

“Protein and shame,” he mutters, staring at a small bag of mystery screws. “Both of which I’m feeling again right now.”

I laugh, then walk over and crouch beside him, glancing at the instructions, which, naturally, are in Swedish and look like an avant-garde comic strip.

“This doesn’t even have words. Just a drawing of a man sweating while holding a wrench.”

“Relatable,” he mutters.

I hand him the correct piece. “This one goes here.”

He looks at me, suspicious. “Are you sure?”

“I’m growing an actual human inside me. I think I’ve earned the benefit of the doubt when it comes to structural logic.”

“Fair point.” He slots the piece in. It fits perfectly.

Grayson glances at me, lips twitching. “How are you so calm about this?”

I shrug. “I grew up with interior designers who had meltdowns over throw pillows. This is relaxing.”

“You’re nesting.”

“I’m organizing.”

“You’re nesting,” he repeats with a soft smile, brushing hair behind my ear.

I pretend to consider. “Maybe. But if this baby comes out already appreciating minimalism, I expect full credit.”

“Deal.” He leans in and kisses my temple. “Also, I may need to lie down. I’ve fought corporate lawyers and hostile takeovers with less tension than these screws.”

Later, we’re both sprawled out on the nursery floor, breathing like we just ran a marathon. The crib stands finished and smug-looking in the corner, a pristine little monument to teamwork and YouTube tutorials.

“You realize we just celebrated finishing a crib like we won the Olympics,” I murmur.

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