He melts against me, the "Ice King" finally at rest, leaving just the man I love.
"The Plaza," he murmurs against my mouth.
"The Plaza," I agree. "But with waffles."
"Every day," he says, sounding sleep-drunk and serious. "On the honeymoon. we're having waffles every day, right?"
"Deal," I grin, kissing the water off his nose. "I'll personally tip the chef."
Chapter 6
The Italian Job
Jax
The room smells like money and chemical warfare.
Specifically, it smells like cedar and a cologne so aggressive it’s probably illegal in three countries. I am standing on a velvet pedestal in the middle of the Upper East Side, wearing nothing but my boxer briefs and a layer of cold sweat.
Giovanni, the eighty-year-old master who dressed three popes and my future father-in-law, is gone. He has retired to a villa in Tuscany. And honestly? I miss him. Sure, Giovanni used to stab me with pins and tell me I had the "proportions of a vending machine," but compared to his son, the man was a saint. At least Giovanni gave me espresso before he insulted my deltoids.
In his place is Enzo.
Enzo is thirty, wears a suit that defies the laws of circulation, and is currently looking at me like I’m a pile of medical waste he found on his pristine floor.
"Disgusting," Enzo murmurs.
He’s circling me, holding a tape measure with two fingers like it’s contaminated. He stops at my chest, sighs, and shakeshis head.
"My father was too kind," Enzo whispers. "He called you a vending machine. But this? This is not a vending machine. This is a... how you say... a panic room made of meat."
"I’m a trauma surgeon," I snap, resisting the urge to step off the pedestal and strangle him. "I lift patients. I do chest compressions. It’s called muscle, Enzo. It serves a function. Unlike your shoes."
"It is vulgar," Enzo corrects me, ignoring the jab at his loafers. "It is peasant geometry. You are all obtuse angles. How am I supposed to drape a morning coat over a retaining wall? The fabric, it weeps. It cries for mercy."
He turns away, pressing a hand to his forehead like a tragic heroine in a telenovela.
"I need an espresso. And a Xanax. This torso is a hate crime against tailoring."
He spins back around, glaring at my shoulders.
"My father warned me about you," Enzo whispers, his eyes narrowing. "He said, 'Enzo, beware the Trauma Surgeon. He does not wear the suit; he fights the suit.' And yet, knowing this, I still find myself in terror. You are going to pop a seam during the vows. I can feel it. It will be a tragedy."
"I hate him," I whisper to Max, who is standing on the next pedestal over, looking calm and perfect. "Max, I’m going to sedate him. I have ketamine in the car. Just one dart to the neck."
"Hold," Max murmurs, barely moving his lips. "He is an artist. He is just... temperamental."
Enzo spins around. His eyes land on Max. The disdain vanishes instantly, replaced by a look of pure, religious ecstasy. It’s the same look the residents give me when I crack a chest in under thirty seconds.
"Maxwell," Enzo breathes, gliding over to him. He touches Max’s shoulder with a reverence that makes my hackles rise. "Nowthis. This is architecture. Look at the lines! The repressed energy! You are a flute, Maxwell. A single, perfect reed of anxietywrapped in skin. I could dress you in a napkin and you would look like an emperor."
"Thank you, Enzo," Max says, standing perfectly still. "I try to maintain a low BMI for aerodynamic purposes."
"You are the Standard," Enzo agrees, shooting a withering look at me. "Your fiancé looks like he hauls stone for a living. But you? You are a York. You barely exist in three dimensions. It is exquisite."
"I’m right here," I growl. "I can hear you insulting my dimensions."
"I do not insult," Enzo sniffs. "I diagnose."
