Page 101 of Winning Bid

“Anderson—"

The other valet opens my door. Shit. I guess he’s feeling adventurous. Or he’s playing some weird version of Chicken with me that I don’t understand yet. No matter what else is true, life as Mrs. Anderson West will never be dull.

I step out, and Anderson comes around to my side of the car to take my hand and lead me into the grand old restaurant. One of Boston’s original businesses, Copeland’s, feels like it’s a step outside of time. Wooden floors that must have been refinished a hundred times by now shine under warmly lit chandeliers, heavy with crystal from more than a century ago. The decor is stark—white, black, espresso—and the rest of the lighting is ancient sconces that have been preserved. Despite the stuffy surroundings, though, the live music is jazzy and at ease, playing at just the perfect volume to allow for conversation.

I absorb as much of it as I can right now because we are about to be booted at any moment. I meant what I said in the car—I am not pretending to be someone else on my wedding day. Today, I am officially Mrs. Anderson West, no matter how badly I have always wanted to eat here.

Though I’m not sure if I’ll actually change my name. I guess that depends on what the future brings. I’m professionally known as June Devlin. But considering my professional reputation is utter garbage thanks to my father-in-law, it might do me some good to change my last name. Hell, it would probably piss Elliot off to share his last name with me. That’s reason enough alone.

We walk up to the tuxedoed maître d, and Anderson gives him a nod. “Gibbs, good to see you.”

“Mr. West, Ms. Copeland sends her regards and with them, her finest table. This way.” He leads us through the place.

I’m left gathering myself for a quick moment before I struggle to keep up. The table is in a corner by the window with a view of the harbor. We’re seated and given menus to peruse for only a moment before our server takes our drink orders. I hadn’t thought about how this dress would look when seated, and the slit makes it expose my thigh almost too high, which I kind of like.

Once we finally have a second to breathe, I blink at my husband. “You know the Copelands?”

He shrugs, eyeing his menu. “Gretta Copeland and my mother go way back. I texted her when we got in the car, so she set this up.”

The matriarch of the Copelands? Oh my god. “I thought she was a myth.”

He laughs. “Hardly. I still remember that old woman’s claw pinching my ear when she caught me spying on her granddaughter.”

“You did what?” That might have come out a little too loud for our surroundings.

“Cindy is our age. We were nine or ten at the time and getting ready to jump in her pool.” He gives a guilty smile. “I was a curious boy, so … ”

“You’ve been naughty since birth, haven’t you?”

His laugh is handsome. I’m so lucky. He nods once. “Perhaps I have been.”

“And Gretta Copeland caught you? I’m amazed you lived to tell the tale.”

“Admittedly, so am I. Gretta Copeland is a delightful menace. Cured me of spying on girls, I can say that much.”

“Well, good. You little pervert.”

He laughs. “I was curious. It’s natural. You can’t tell me you never did anything like that when you were a kid.”

“I was not a peeping tom when I was a kid. Maybe it’s a boy thing. Hell, is there a girl equivalent of a peeping tom?”

“I don’t think there is.”

“Wait, you said she is a delightful menace. She’s delightful, how?”

He leans close. “She makes the world’s best chocolate chip cookies. They serve them here, allegedly the same recipe, but it’s not. She swears it is, but then she gives you this look like you know she’s lying. That woman is an enigma.”

“Maybe I’ll have to make you my chocolate chip cookies and see if I come close.”

“You’ve made them.”

I cast an innocent look at my husband. “I made you my mom’s recipe. Not mine.”

“Oh, devious. Then, by all means, we will go home right now and?—"

“Hell no! I am not leaving until I’ve had their roast and Yorkshire pudding. You could not drag me out of here right now. Oh, and the walnut crème brule.”

“As you wish, wife.”

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