Page 55 of Monsters, Vows, and Growls
“I think it’s voice-activated? Or motion-activated? Either way, something triggered it.”
The buzzing grew louder. And then, from inside the barn, amoaning soundechoed out across the reception. Everyone froze.
And then: OH YEAH, BABY. SHOW ME THAT HONEYMOON ENERGY.
Laughter mixed with shocked gasps. An elderly relative dropped a fork. Ella buried her face in her hands. “I swear to God, if this is from Henry…”
“I didn’t say it was from Henry,” Carol said quickly.
“You didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“I think it’s from the bakery girls,” Carol whispered, “but I didn’t open the card.”
At that moment, the moaning automaton in the barn let out a mechanical giggle and shouted: “SWEETEN THAT DESSERT, CHEF.”
Ella groaned and slid down into a chair. “I’m going to die. Right here. I’m going to pass away in my wedding dress, and they’re going to writedeath by vibrator basketon my grave.”
“I’ll carve it in,” I promised.
Thorne was cackling inside my chest.Best wedding ever.
I pulled Ella up and kissed her cheek. “Come on, Mrs. McCloud. Let’s go shut up the robot sex elf in our barn.”
She gave me a look that said she was reconsidering everything, then slipped her hand into mine. Together we walked toward the barn, faces burning, guests still laughing behind us.
“On the plus side,” I muttered, “at least no one’s going to forget our wedding.”
“Oh no,” Ella agreed dryly in prophetic words. “This is going down in history.”
The cake was gorgeous.Three tiers of vanilla bean sponge with dark cherry compote and lemon mascarpone buttercream. Hand-piped flowers. Subtle gold leaf. I hadn’t let the bakery handle it. I’d made it myself, of course, and forced Patrick to promise not to drop it, poke it, or touch it unnecessarily.
He’d solemnly sworn, like a man going to war. We stood behind it now, surrounded by friends and family, all eyes on us as the photographer gave a soft, encouraging nod.
“Ready?” Patrick asked, the knife already in hand.
“I was born ready,” I muttered, posing for the photo like I hadn’t just been warned by three separate aunts not to savage the cake.
We sliced. We smiled. We posed.
Then came the real test: the feeding.
I turned to Patrick, holding a forkful of cake like a peace offering. “This is a sacred trust,” I whispered. “Donotsmear this on my face.”
He grinned, that damn dimple flashing. “Of course not. What kind of monster would do that?”
“I swear to God, Patrick McCloud?—”
I didn’t get to finish. Because that’s when hegently,lovingly, and withextreme premeditation, smeared a perfect arc of lemon buttercream across my cheek.
The crowd lost it. Applause. Screams. Someone, it sounded like my mom, shouted, “Oh no he didn't!”
I blinked at him. He was grinning like a kid who just stole a cookie and knew he was still getting dessert.
“You have exactly five seconds to run,” I said calmly.
“You look delicious,” he replied, absolutely unrepentant.
I turned to Carol. “Bathroom. Now. Before I commit a felony.”
