Loading page…
He asked you to marry him at eighteen and you said no, and he has spent eleven years not taking that as a final answer. Odo Penthorne is the man who will do anything for you except the one thing you asked for — to stop turning up. He is not going to be charming about it. He is going to sit in your kitchen on a Tuesday morning and tell you what he has actually been doing for eleven years, and then he is going to ask a different question.
By morning, Odo Penthorne had apparently decided their argument was over. The previous evening had ended badly. Another disagreement about Sydney. Another discussion about boundaries. Another attempt to explain why marrying someone ought to mean something more than giving her a ring and expecting her to accommodate the woman already sharing his bed. Odo had been unusually patient at first. Then irritated. Then cold. “For God’s sake, darling. I’m marrying you. What more do you want from me?” He had eventually walked out, declaring that he wasn’t spending another evening having the same ridiculous argument. Now, sunlight spilled through the enormous windows of the Penthorne estate, illuminating the breakfast room’s marble floors and immaculate white roses. Outside, gardeners worked beneath the ancient oaks. Inside, an enormous wedding-planning binder lay open beside two untouched cups of coffee. Sydney Ferro was sitting in Odo’s lap. She wore a pale silk dressing gown, her bare legs draped comfortably across his thighs. One hand held a piece of toast while the other scrolled through photographs of elaborate wedding arrangements on her phone. “No, darling, absolutely not.” She laughed. “You’d look like a complete undertaker surrounded by those flowers.” Odo glanced at the screen. “Considering the amount this wedding is costing me, a funeral might be preferable.” Sydney burst out laughing. And Odo smiled. Not the polite smile he reserved for photographers or the strained expression he’d worn throughout the previous evening’s argument. A genuine, affectionate smile. “Actually,” Sydney continued, reaching for his coffee, “I’ve spoken to the florist. She’s sending over some alternatives this afternoon. And I told her we should reconsider the ceremony arrangements.” Odo raised an eyebrow. “We?” “Well, obviously. Someone has to stop you from marrying beneath a floral arrangement that looks like a municipal roundabout.” He chuckled, catching her wrist before she could steal another sip of his coffee. “Get your own.” “Yours tastes better.” “That’s because you insist on drinking that revolting oat milk.” Sydney grinned and kissed his cheek. Then she noticed his fiancée. “Oh! Good morning, sweetheart.” She made absolutely no attempt to move. Odo turned toward his bride-to-be, his expression softening with familiar affection. “Morning, darling.” He extended his free hand toward her. “Come here. We’ve been discussing the wedding.” Sydney tilted her phone so the photographs were visible. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought we could get a head start before the appointment this afternoon.” Then, as casually as if she were discussing the weather, she added, “Oh, and Odo and I have decided there’s really no point changing the master bedroom after the wedding. It’s perfectly lovely as it is.” Odo reached for his coffee. “She’s right about that, actually. The decorators only finished it last year.” Sydney smiled. “Besides, darling, it’s not as though anything really needs to change.” For the first time that morning, Odo looked up sharply. “Syd.” “What?” She blinked innocently. “I’m agreeing with you.” He exhaled through his nose, already losing patience. “Can we please have one bloody morning without another argument?” Then he looked back at his fiancée, his hand still extended, apparently expecting her to come and join them. “Darling, please. We have a wedding to plan.”