Chapter 83: Wedding Menus

"Then write a letter like you usually do, you idiot." He walked back toward the house without another word.

Diana stood there watching him disappear inside. Then she sighed. If he would just explain things to her instead of yelling and screaming all the time, maybe she would actually understand his point of view.

That was always the problem with Richard. Everything became a fight before it became a conversation.

By the time he was done shouting, Diana usually found herself too tired to ask the questions she had wanted to ask in the first place.

Richard stormed straight into his office and slammed the door behind him. He paced once across the room.

Dorian Heathcliffe had been to Bedford Hills. That fact kept circling his mind like an alarm he couldn’t shut off.

Why?

What had Marianne told him? Had Heathcliffe gone there already knowing something? The bastard was too curious for his own good.

Victor had warned him. One loose thread. That was all Heathcliffe needed. Richard grabbed his phone and scrolled until he found Callum’s number.

He pressed call. Callum answered after a few rings. "Mr Sterling?"

"What can I do for you, Richard?"

Richard ignored the tone. Right now, he needed Callum moving. "We have to speed things up."

"What happened?"

"Heathcliffe is getting too close. You want to win, get to work now." He hung up, tossed the phone onto the desk and dragged both hands over his face. He didn’t exactly care if Naomi found out whether Marianne was dead or alive.

That part, by itself, meant nothing. The problem was what came next. Questions about money. And once Naomi started asking those questions, Dorian Heathcliffe would be right there beside her.

That was what Richard couldn’t afford.

Not yet.

Everything had to happen in the right order. Naomi had to marry Callum. The papers had to be signed.

The money had to move. The rest could collapse afterward for all he cared. Richard stopped pacing and stared at the floor.

The timeline was changing. And Richard wasn’t ready.

"Fuck!"

*****

Ginny had made an appointment to come over Friday morning to discuss the wedding menu and make a few adjustments.

A handful of late RSVPs had come in, pushing the guest count higher, which meant Naomi needed to recalculate quantities, serving logistics and probably her remaining sanity.

They also needed to talk about the rehearsal dinner.

Naomi had gotten up early enough to give herself time for coffee, breakfast and a shower before Ginny arrived. She wanted to look at least reasonably professional when her client walked through the door.

Yes, Ginny was family.

Technically.

For another few months, anyway. But she was still paying Naomi, and Chef Bennett was not going to become successful by showing up to business meetings in pajamas.

Naomi padded into the kitchen and started setting things out. The townhouse was quiet. She hadn’t seen Dorian nearly as much over the last few days.

Whatever new case he was working on must have been brutal because he was spending longer hours at the office again. Some nights, he came back just before midnight, looking exhausted but still somehow annoyingly handsome.

They texted frequently, though. Or at least Naomi texted frequently. Dorian responded. There was a difference.

She had recently discovered that Dorian Heathcliffe was a complete failure at texting.

Absolutely tragic.

Hand him a phone and language became optional.

Naomi would send:

How’s your day going? Did you eat? Also, I’m thinking of changing the potato option for Ginny’s menu.

Dorian would respond:

Fine.

Fine what?

Fine day?

Fine food?

Fine potatoes?

Was he alive?

Being held hostage?

The man had no texting aura.

None.

She had already added it to the growing list of things Dorian needed to learn. Naomi smiled to herself as she reached for the coffee. She started preparing a cup, then suddenly remembered Gertrude. "Oh my God."

When was the last time she had fed Gertrude? That poor thing had been neglected. She quickly pulled out the flour container.

Naomi scooped out a little flour, added some water and mixed it together. She turned toward the refrigerator.

Gertrude usually stayed near the top. Naomi opened the fridge and reached upward.

Nothing.

She frowned. Maybe she had moved her. "Gertrude?"

Obviously, Gertrude did not answer. Naomi leaned farther into the refrigerator. Maybe Dorian had moved her.

That was possible. He had started using the kitchen more lately, usually hovering around while Naomi cooked and pretending he wasn’t waiting to steal food.

Perhaps he had shifted Gertrude somewhere because she was in his way. Naomi checked the other shelves.

Nothing.

She closed the refrigerator. She checked the counter. Behind the coffee machine. "Where the hell are you?"

Now she was annoyed. She started searching properly, yanking open cupboards and cabinets.

"Trouble?" Dorian’s voice came from somewhere above her.

Naomi didn’t even look up. She was crouched in front of an open cabinet, moving containers around with increasing irritation. "Have you seen Gertrude?"

"Gertrude? Is that like a pet or something?" he asked. "Did you smuggle a pet in here? Please tell me it’s not a snake."

Naomi finally straightened and looked at him. "No, Gertrude! My sourdough starter!"

"I don’t know what that is."

"I’ve been taking care of her for three years."

That only made Dorian look more confused.

"It’s a living thing?"

"Of course it’s a living thing. She eats!"

"Naomi, please speak English."

She gave him such a dense look that he almost took a step backward. "My sourdough starter," she repeated slowly, as though explaining something to a difficult child. "It’s in a transparent jar. Tightly sealed. I put it..." she turned, marched toward the refrigerator and yanked the door open. "Right here!"

She pointed dramatically at the empty space on the shelf. Dorian looked at the spot. Something shifted in his expression. Naomi caught it immediately. Her eyes narrowed. "Dorian."

He scratched the side of his jaw. "You mean that foamy, stinky thing?"