“I know,” she says, softer, smiling at me. “I just… I want it to feel like us.”
“It will.” She studies me for a second like she’s trying to figure out if I’m being sincere or CEO-sincere. The problem is I’m both. I’m always both. But with her, I’m trying—actually trying, to be only one thing. Not Theodore Jones. Just Theo. Her fiancé. She moves my way, giving me space between her legs as she plays with my hair. “Okay. So. Here’s what I want.”
I tilt my head. “I’m listening.”
“I want a small ceremony,” she says. “I don’t want any press there. I know you are the CEO of HayesInternational and all, but no. No Hayes spectacle. No ‘legacy family moment’, nothing like that. This is not about our jobs. This is just about us.”
“Agreed.”
“And I don’t want it at the Hayes estate. I’m so over my family’s home.”
“Also agreed.” She looks relieved enough that I feel like a sharp knife just twisted in my chest. It’s like the idea of that place still feels like a cage to her, even when it’s dressed up in marble and money. Which is sad, but I completely understand.
“What about your dad? Is he coming?” I ask carefully. Sam’s expression tightens a bit. She’s not angry. Not really. She’s just… tired. Of him, of everything related to that name. “Yes, I invited him. I don’t know if he’ll be there. Probably will be,” she says. “Because Naomi would kill me if I didn’t invite him. And because he’d make it a whole thing if I didn’t too, so.”
I nod. “Okay, he should be there. You are his daughter despite everything.”
“And your parents?” she asks, suddenly a bit nervous. “Are they like, really excited about this?” I smile. “You know they are. My mom even cried when I told her.” Sam’s eyes widened in such a soft way. “She did? Really?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘Finally. A woman with sense will be joining the family. Thank God.’” Sam laughs, bright and startled. “Your mom likes me, right?”
“She loves you.” Sam’s smile falters just a fraction,like she doesn’t fully trust that kind of unconditional approval. Like she’s waiting for the fine print. I lift her chin gently. “She’s already too obsessed with you, I’m afraid.”
“Great, I’ll take that.” Sam grinned.
“You’re collecting them,” I say, deadpan. “It’s like a hobby.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling again. “Okay. So for the ceremony. I was thinking something very intimate. Obviously romantic. Like… maybe a garden? Or a rooftop? Something that looks warm and cozy, but still elegant.”
“I like the rooftop idea,” I say instantly. Sam squints at me. “Why do you say that like you already chose?” I shrug. “Because you like the sky. You like being on top of things.”
“That’s not entirely true.” I raise a brow. Sam sighs dramatically. “Fine. It’s true. I like being on top of things. Like on top of you, for example.”
“That I know. So rooftop,” I repeat. “Small venue, around sunset time. Just a few of our closest friends and family. With good wine, good music?—”
“And good food,” she adds immediately.
“Of course.”
“And no speeches longer than three minutes,” she says. I smile. “That’s clearly directed at Naomi.”
“That’s directed at everyone, but yeah, especially at Naomi,” Sam says, and I laugh. She steps back, grabs my legal pad, and starts reading my list. “Venue, officiant, guest list… okay, wow,” she says, impressed. “You made this sound like a business plan.”
“It’s how I cope.” She taps the paper. “What’s this?”
“Ring insurance.” Sam looks up slowly. “Theo.”
“What?”
“I’m wearing it on my finger,” she says, holding up her hand like evidence. “It’s not like we are getting married on a yacht or something.” I tilt my head. “It’s just a safety measure.” She stares at me, then laughs so hard she bends at the waist. “Oh, my God. You think I’m going to lose it.”
“I think you’re going to do something impulsive, and it might fall, or you’re going to put it somewhere safe, and it’s going to disappear.” I correct. “Which is different.”
“I’m not impulsive,” Sam says, as if she didn’t once disappear from a bar and let me carry her out over my shoulder while she yelled,I AM A FUNCTIONING ADULT.I keep my face neutral. “You’re right.” She narrows her eyes. “That tone was suspicious.”
“I’m being supportive of your statement,” I say, and she throws the legal pad at my chest. I catch it easily, grinning. “Ow.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” I say, stepping closer, “you’re marrying me.”
