Page 2 of The Housemaid's Wedding
“Telemarketer,” I lie.
He grimaces because he hates calls from telemarketers. He would’ve hated the actual call even more, but he’s never going to find out about it. If it happens again, I’ll have to tell him eventually, but not today.
Enzo rubs his eyes as he struggles into a sitting position. His black hair is sticking up, and he’s got a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw, but my fiancé is at his sexiest first thing in the morning. And that’s saying alotbecause his baseline level of sexiness is quite high. Then the covers fall away to reveal the taut muscles in his chest, and I forget all about that stupid call.
In only four short hours, this man is going to be my husband. Myhusband. We’re going to be married, with rings and everything. Despite the fact that we’ve been a couple for a long time and been through hell together, I never entirely believed this day would ever come.
I place a hand gently on the swell of my abdomen. Try as I might, I can’t forget thatthisis why we’re getting married. When he popped the question, Enzo made a whole speech about how he knew from the second hemet me that I was the one and how he wanted to spend his whole life devoted to me, but he proposedone weekafter I told him I was pregnant. The timing was unmistakable.
“How are you feeling?” He has noticed me touching my belly, and his brow creases in concern. “Still with the nausea?”
Enzo was a rock star during my horrific bout of first-trimester nausea. He bought me three forms of ginger, which sadly only confirmed three times that I hate ginger. He bought a diffuser because he read aromatherapy can work, but it did not. He even read a book about acupressure and gave me a personal session, which resulted in a sexy outcome that admittedlydidhelp me forget about my nausea for a little while. But nothing worked. Until about a month ago, I was throwing up every day. Sometimes multiple times a day. It wasn’t fun.
But it’s like they say—what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. If I can deal with twice-daily vomiting, I can deal with some chickenshit asshole threatening me on the phone.
Besides, I know who that guy is. Okay, I might not know his name, but over the last several years, I have helped quite a few women escape their abusive husbands. In the process, I have gained some enemies in the form of angry husbands. I don’t know which of those husbands was threatening to slit my throat, but it was almost certainly one of them.
“I’m fine.” I manage a smile that initially feelsforced, but when I see the smile on his own lips, it becomes genuine. “I’m just excited about today.”
“Me too.” He reaches for me, pulling me into his bare arms and drawing me close. “I can’t wait to marry you.”
When he says those words, I feel—dare I say it?—lucky. I’ve never felt lucky in my whole life—it’s not a word I’d ever have used to describe myself. But at this moment, I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.
Okay, nothing about this wedding is conventional. It’s not going to be a big ceremony—we will get married at Manhattan’s City Hall in a tiny chapel that I’ve read is more like a conference room with a few decorations. Also, there’s that whole part about me being knocked up. But who cares? What matters is that the two of us are going to spend the rest of our lives together, and there’s no one else I would rather share that journey with.
Also, there’s one more thing that will make this day special.
2
“Millie?”Enzo speaks the word into my hair as he cuddles close to me in bed. “Is sex on the morning of the wedding bad luck?”
Good question. As badly as I want the answer to be no, I am desperate for my run of good luck to continue.
“Probably,” I admit.
His face falls. “You are sure?”
“You know,” I say, “we’re not even supposed toseeeach other today.”
“Really?” Enzo looks around our tiny living space, clearly confused. We occupy a small one-bedroom apartment in the Bronx, where the living room and the kitchen are merged into one. “Where am I supposed to go to not see you?”
“It’s more of a rule for fancy people who have friends with guest bedrooms where they can spend the night.”
“I hate fancy people.” He kisses my neck, whichmakes my whole body tingle. “So since wealreadybroke rules, it is not bad to break more, yes?”
Bad luck or not, on any other day, I would be powerless to resist him. But today is my wedding day. I have to shower and make sure my dress fits well and get my hair looking respectable and put on more makeup than my usual dash of drugstore lipstick. It takes all my self-restraint to push him away. “Better not. I need to get ready.”
“Get ready?” He looks baffled. “But our wedding is not for four hours!”
“Right. It’s inonly four hours.”
Enzo is frowning, but he reluctantly relinquishes his grasp on me so that I can go to the bathroom and have a shower. Men just don’t get it. I had to iron the white shirt he’ll be wearing today because such a thing didn’t even occur to him, despite the fact that it wasclearlyunacceptably wrinkled. He will shower in five minutes, towel off his hair, throw on his suit, and the whole thing will be done in less than ten minutes.
But I need to look perfect today. Because there’s one other thing that will make this day incredibly special.
Myparentsare coming to the wedding.
This is areallybig deal. My parents and I are not close. In fact, I haven’t seen them in well over a decade. They abandoned me in my time of need back when I was a teenager, when I defended my best friend from being attacked and ended up in prison for killing the bastard. They threw me to the wolves—didn’t give me a penny for my defense and never came to visit me when I was locked away. And even after all that, I was willing toforgive and forget—they are my parents, after all—but they were not.You’re a bad apple, Millie. We don’t want you poisoning our lives anymore.
