Page 15 of A Week To Wed
That should be enough for anyone.
ChapterEight
Lincoln
The following day, I wake up to the house filled with the scent of cinnamon and baking bread.
I find my coffee brewed and a plate of muffins waiting next to my thermos. Heck, Harley usually has a breakfast spread waiting for us when Ray and I come in from early morning chores around seven a.m. Never does he rise extra early to bake muffins. What in the world got into him?
The answer to that comes in the form of a note. Next to the plate is a handwritten slip of paper and what looks like a list in Maisy’s handwriting.
“Good morning, boys. Enjoy the muffins.
Lincoln, I need you to let me know a few things before I run errands today.
Chicken, fish, or pork belly?
White chocolate cake with raspberry filling or vanilla cake with vanilla buttercream? Or something else?
What flavor for the groom’s cake?
Cravat, necktie or bow tie?”
Too many damn questions. Too many details.
As for the food, I circle all three.
Cake? I prefer chocolate, but white chocolate will do.
Groom’s cake? I have no idea what a groom’s cake is, so I skip that question.
Cravat…no, I’m skipping that question too.
Maybe I’m tired because I lay awake most of the night thinking about Maisy. Maybe I’m in a sour mood because all I want to do is get married.
I wanted to spend some time with her last night after we returned from our trip to Bozeman, but she had taken her plate of food, thanked Harley, and padded upstairs to her room to work on some more wedding planning. Said she had some Zoom meetings and invoices to print.
I scrawl my response on the bottom of the note, and I hope that settles things.
ChapterNine
Maisy
“Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there, sweetheart.”
This man is so frustrating. He means well, though.
But the time of day for the wedding depends on what suit he wants to wear, and vice versa.
He has to be willing to meet me halfway. If he doesn’t want anything to do with the wedding planning, fine. But he has to be available to answer questions about his preferences. I don’t want to hose down the venue in pink if he doesn’t like pink. And if he wants something more rustic, I’ll cancel the tent and decorate the barn.
This is getting ridiculous.
If Lincoln won’t answer my questions on the list, then I’ll just go to him.
Something wet nuzzles my ankle, and I crouch down to scratch Loki behind the ears. “It’s a good thing Mommy brought her old riding gear. You’ll stay here and be a good boy, won’t you?”
Nostalgia fills my head with new wedding ideas as I pull on my old riding boots. It’s been ages since my horse phase, but the boots feel like an old friend. Comfortable and familiar. Same with the pants and sharp little tailored jacket. I twirl in the full-length mirror in my room and smile at my reflection. I look rather fetching if I do say so myself. That cowboy is not going to know what hit him.
