Page 23 of The Fiancée Farce
Gemma frowned sympathetically. “Guessing they woke you, too?”
Rochelle yawned. “Surprised you managed to sleep through as much of it as you did. They’ve been going ’round for at least the last hour.”
“Which is why you’re using a croquet mallet,” Max said to Teddy, underscoring Rochelle’s point.
“First and foremost,this?”—Teddy threw his mallet downon the floor—“is used for pall-mall, a predecessor to croquet, you Cronut. We have been through this,Maximillian. I had no sledgehammer. It’s called improvisation.”
“It’scalledhiring a professional,Theodore.”
“A professional.” Teddy scoffed. “What’s so wrong with being an amateur, hmm? Hobbies are pure pursuits. I thumb my nose at your capitalistic attitude toward the commodification of crafts and recreation.”
“You thumb your nose at my capitalistic attitude in a pair of jeans that cost you a thousand bucks?”
Teddy growled. “That is entirely beside the point.”
“Thepointis that you don’t know a lug nut from your left nut and therefore have no business wielding power tools, my friend.” His brows rose. “Or sports equipment.”
Teddy’s scowl wavered at the edges, composure cracking. He snickered and stepped forward, slapping Max’s hand in a high five. “Fuck you, that was actually decent.”
Max grinned. “Yeah, I’m pretty proud.”
“So now we just have a great big hole in the wall?” Rochelle frowned. “That’s lovely.”
“It adds a certain panache!” Teddy argued.
“Panache, my ass.” Rochelle rolled her eyes.
“We’ll just hang a picture over it.” Max shrugged. “Nobody’s gonna know.”
Rochelle and Gemma exchanged a look. “They’re gonna know.”
“How would they know?” Teddy frowned.
Gemma refused to dignify that with a response. “Pleasetell me one of you dunderheads put on a pot of coffee.”
“Beeped ten minutes ago.” Chocolate milk dribbled off Max’s chin and down his bare chest when he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen.
Yep.Waytoo old for this many roommates.
Gemma patted Rochelle’s blanket-covered knee. “Coffee, hon?”
“Please and thank you.” Rochelle disappeared back beneath the blanket.
“Yvonne still sleeping?” Gemma asked Max, figuring he’d know the whereabouts of his girlfriend better than anyone else.
Max wiped his chin. “Left her in bed reading Sunday Spotted.”
She padded into the kitchen, the tile cool beneath her bare feet. “And Lucy?”
“Haven’t seen her since last night,” Max mumbled around another mouthful of cereal.
Lucy had arrived home late, returning from Dublin; her work as a consultant in cybersecurity took her around the world. The apartment was really more of a place to rest her head when she was in town than an actual place for her to call home, which—Gemma cringed, feeling guilty even thinking it—worked out better for everyone. Lucy hadn’t been in the door for two minutes before Max had blurted out news of her engagement. Tact was far from his strong suit.
All things considered, Lucy had taken the news well, her only question beingSo, what’s her name?She’d nodded once and begged off to her room, claiming she was dead on her feet.
Oddly anticlimactic, honestly.
Down the hall, a door opened and shut, and the wooden floorboards squeaked. Gemma glanced over her shoulder, carafe poised above her mug, ready to pour. Lucy stood in the entrance of the kitchen, strawberry hair piled in a bun atop her head, rose-gold glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose, bags beneath her eyes.
