Page 56 of Monsters, Vows, and Growls
The barn bathroom had been stocked with everything from hairspray to bobby pins to an entire emergency sewing kit. Carol called itover the top; I called it being prepared. With a grin, she handed me a towel and a bottle of micellar water like we were in a triage unit.
“I told you he was going to do it,” she said, gently dabbing the side of my face. “You’ve been asking for it since you made him wear those embroidered socks.”
“They saidHusband of the Year.That’s not a punishment, that’s a branding opportunity.”
She raised a brow. “They were glittery.”
“So? Glitter is timeless.”
Carol snorted, reaching for a clean towel. “You really going to punish him on your wedding night?”
“I’m going to haunt him.”
“You say that, but I saw how you looked at him during the ceremony. You looked like a woman ready to die of happy exhaustion.”
I rolled my eyes. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
I smiled, finally feeling the sting of betrayal give way to amusement. “So much it physically hurts.”
We laughed, the kind of deep belly laugh that only comes after years of chaos and forgiveness and knowing someone all the way down to their nerve endings.
“Better?” she asked, holding out a mirror.
I looked. The frosting was gone. My makeup was… mostly intact. My dignity was limping, but recovering.
“Better,” I said.
“Good,” Carol said. “Now let’s go get revenge.”
I paused. “You have a plan?”
She smirked. “Oh, honey. You married a bear. But I raised abeast.”
We reentered the reception like queens reentering battle, with clean cheeks and calm smiles plastered over our faces. Patrick was still at the head table, chatting with Henry and watching the dance floor like he was king of the forest and not a frosting-smearing menace. When he spotted me, his whole face lit up—pure sunshine, unaware that a storm was brewing behind my perfectly touched-up lipstick.
“You’re back,” he said as I approached.
“I am,” I replied sweetly, picking up a forkful of cake from the spare plate in front of him.
“I missed you.”
I smiled. “That’s good.”
Then, casually—verycasually—I leaned in like I was going to whisper something sultry in his ear... and smeared the cake over his cheek. The people around us snickered; calls of payback ended in giggles.
Patrick's eyes were filled with love and amusement.
“Mrs. McCloud,” he said, fake stern. “You’ve broken the terms of the dessert treaty.”
“I was never briefed on the terms,” I said, lifting my chin. “That sounds like a you problem.”
He grabbed a napkin and wiped at the mess, then gave me a slow, promising grin. “You know this means war.”
I leaned in, just enough for only him to hear. “Not war. Surrender. Later. Upstairs.”
His pupils dilated like I’d injected him with hormones.
