Page 84 of The Holiday Whoopie
Outside, a truck backfires, and the gulls swear about it. Seaside Maine is loud in the most charming way imaginable.
“Jack.” Audrey’s chin drops, her eyes lasering in on me.
“Mm?” I pause mid-thought, already cataloguing how tospin this into “responsible husband” instead of “overbearing lunatic.”
She points back toward the door. “You do realize I made it up those steps every day for years.”
I level her a look right back. “Not while incubating.” My hand slides to her belly, an instinct I didn’t know existed until three weeks ago when the first flutter hit my palm and my skull turned to stardust.
Her mouth tilts into something that warms me behind my ribs.
“Who was on the call?” Audrey’s hip bumps my knee. Her hand settles on the curve under her dress, the absent, proprietary touch making my throat burn.
“Sloane.” I scratch my jaw, buying a second to shove myself back into work mode. “Studio wants us both in person next week.”
Since pulling Sloane on board as the first agent in Lourd & Co. LLC, she’s been handling the talent while I handle the paper. Bi-coastal lawyering has turned into an entertaining challenge. I love it.
Audrey hums approval, already a card-carrying member of the Sloane Mercer Fan Club. “Any more clients tell you your voice sounds like a ‘contract in cashmere’?”
Having my wife repeat a client’s flirty soundbite back to me is infinitely more mortifying than when it happened in the first place. “Who told you?”
“Elizabeth.” Audrey smiles. “After hearing about it from Felix.” Her nostrils flare as if trying not to laugh. “Who got it from Amanda, who got it from Sloane.”
I wince at the reminder that the rumor mill needs nomiddleman when family and clients are one and the same. “I assure you, wife, my cashmere remains strictly for you.”
Audrey licks the last of the cream from her lip slowly and smugly. “Mmm.”
The sound slides under my skin like heat rising off her whoopie pies.
As if reading my mind, she opens the box again, pulling out a smaller, pale green cake from the corner. “Maya’s.”
I bite. Pistachio, chocolate, a whisper of something citrus that shouldn’t work and absolutely does. “Damn.”
“I know.” Pride slides through her words like butter over hot toast. “She built it off my almond base, then switched it for pistachio and cut the sweetness with dark chocolate.”
When the trademark paperwork I filed came through, Audrey made quick use of it, setting up a bakery in LA just like she said she would that day on the mountain. Making Whoopie is now a two-store chain, with plans in the works for a third located inside Moore’s Department Store in Manhattan this Christmas.
A Christmas we’ll spend with both our families—born and chosen.
“When you check on the LA store next week, make sure to tell Maya I’m a fan. You chose your employee well.”
She tips her head as if still surprised how the woman who once shouldered a whole town’s worth of expectations by herself is no longer carrying them alone. “Turns out hiring competent people and delegating doesn’t make me lazy.”
“There are many things I would call you—” I lick pistachio from my thumb. “But lazy is not one of them.”
Eyebrows lifted, she arches a challenge. “And what things would you call me?”
I lean closer, nuzzling the skin just under her jaw. “Glowing.”
“It’s the first of July and ninety degrees outside.” Her voice is flat enough for me to feel the eye roll. “I’m not glowing, I’m sweating.”
I nuzzle her neck anyway. “It’s a wet glow.”
Pulling back, she swipes her finger across the cream of a pastry. “Can you think of anything else less… damp?” Heat dances in her eyes.
My pulse trips, the air shifting from sweet to something decidedly hungry. “Alluring.”
Smiling, she smears my bottom lip with cream. “Better.”
