Page 29 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

When I walked in, bits of packing material were strewn all around the nearly completed bar, and a crowbar lay abandoned next to one of the crate lids. Several of the new glasses were lined up on the floor in front of Laurel, where she sat opening the next crate.

And she didn’t look thrilled. Her face was scrunched up, and she shook her head as she tossed the crowbar and pulled out more of the glasses. “Are they all like this?” she asked, spotting me.

I crouched down and picked one up, holding it up to the light and weighing the heavy glass in my hand. “Aren’t they great? Look at that iridescence.”

“Iridescence,” she sputtered. “Who wants their wine to look multi-colored and sparkly? And they’re stemless.” This last came out almost like a wail of pain.

“Yeah, that’s cooler.”

“It’s actually warmer,” she said, still shaking her head. “The person’s hand will heat up the wine. And the glass is too thick, and the shape is too skinny.”

“Now you’re making things up,” I said.

But no, she wasn’t. She really believed my glasses were crap. “Laurel, do you know how expensive these were? They’re handblown.”

“Well, they’re pretty to put marbles in or something,” she said. “But you can’t really mean to replace my real wine glasses with these, can you?”

“These are real wine glasses,” I said, getting heated. Not to mention Todd and two of the builders helping to block out where his new paintings would go had stopped working to listen in.

“They’re trendy, or they were. Until people realized their wine tastes better in a traditional glass.”

Why the hell did that sting so much? “These are the glasses we’re using. I’ve already ordered the shelving to show them off.”

I pointed to where they were supposed to go, and she stood up, almost kicking over the glasses she already unpacked. “No, that’s where the refrigeration units are going for the champagne.”

“In the old plans. Did you forget everything’s different?”

“I think I must have blocked it out,” she said, pointing to the bar. Her bar, the one I moved back to please her. “Does it make sense to put shelves there when the bar is here?”

It actually didn’t. It made more sense when the bar was where I wanted it. She was now launching into something completely new, that she’d apparently been waiting to spring on me. I didn’t hear a word of it, because as much as I would have liked to let her know all the ways she was wrong, my phone blew up.

Three of my cousins tried calling me at the same time, and a single message came through from Aleks.

Emergency.

Play time was over. I slammed the glass I was still holding onto the bar, giving her a smug look when it didn’t break. Something new seemed to be popping off, and I was needed to help shut it down. Just like I needed to put an end to this foolish argument.

Chapter 17 - Laurel

Wow, this was technically my honeymoon. What kind of stubborn buffoon did I marry? Mik might think his stemless wine glasses fit the space age decor better, but he was crazy if he thought they were better for the wine. Not to mention, they were all the same size and shape. What was he thinking? Who cared if they were handblown? They could blow right out of here.

He was going to make an enemy of the bartender if he put his shelves up where he wanted them, but that was partly my fault for going so hard to get the bar back where it should have been. Not that I was seeing that clearly at the moment, already thinking ahead to the catty reviews from all the ultra snobby restaurant critics, who’d assume the sommelier was in charge of such decisions.

I wasn’t in charge of shit. Not even my own life. It sucked, and my temperature was rising. Despite being perfectly reasonable and right in my arguments, he wasn’t hearing any of it. In fact, he started looking at his phone, as if this wasn’t important at all.

Being dismissed and ignored was all too familiar to me, but I didn’t expect it of my boss, who was supposed to take me seriously. Or… my husband, who was supposed to, what? Care? To try to strike some sort of compromise, I asked if it would be possible to speak to the creators at this glass company he was hellbent on working with.

He scowled down at his phone, barely paying any attention to me and already starting to turn away. Hot prickles burned around my collar, and I tugged at it, hurrying after him. He seemed shocked to see me standing in front of him all of a sudden, then irritated.

Well, so was I, and yes, this was important.

“If you don’t want to take me or your wine presentation seriously, why even have a sommelier?” I blurted, then held my breath.

I never let my temper get the best of me. Nothing good ever came of sticking up for myself. Fired and divorced on the same day? Mik barely looked up from his phone, taking a neat step around me.

“My changes stand,” he decreed, rushing out the door.

I stared at the empty space his big body had just filled, reeling from the utter lack of concern he had with anything I had to say. Taking some deep, slow breaths to keep from whirling around and throwing one of the new glasses against the wall, my anger started to dissolve.