“Fine. I am frustrated with my job. Sometimes,” I amended. “And this is one of those times.”
He was walking through our kitchen, the sounds of the coffee maker breaking through the speakers. “We can celebrate our anniversary when you get back.”
I pushed out my bottom lip, a shameless pout of self-pity and disappointment, and he chuckled.
I didn’t want to wait to celebrate our fifth anniversary. I had things planned. Great things. Exciting fifth anniversary things.
Exciting for us, at least. Most couples would commemorate five years of marital bliss with a grand night out on the town.
Not us.
Noah and I traveled so much for our jobs—me as a production manager for Amazon Studios, Noah as a gameday commentator for college football. Almost all our meals on the road were eaten in restaurants or hotels, occasionally catered events at someone’s house. For this husband and wife, until our life slowed down just a little bit—a day spent at home, being pampered within an inch of our life—sounded like absolute heaven.
I’d hired a five-star personal chef.
A masseuse to come in for a couples massage.
I’d coordinated for an early showing of a movie we both wanted to see, but because it came out at the end of the college football season, there was no way we’d be able to make it work.
And in the top drawer of my dresser was a black lace confection that I fully intended on my husband tearing off me sometime after the movie.
Our asses would be in bed by nine pm for glorious sex and early bed time. What could be better?
Nothing.
Our anniversary had actually fallen—quite miraculously—on a rare off weekend for him, and a lull in my schedule as well. But my lull just got a little bit shorter, because of one cranky octogenarian who didn’t want to go on camera.
The production on a sports documentary was supposed to have wrapped earlier that day. Normally, I didn’t have to be present for everything, but one particular person we needed to interview had been particularly cagey. He was a notoriously private former coach, eschewing media in all forms, but he’d agreed to speak to our crew when I finally got him on the phone about six months earlier.
He’d delayed four times. Rescheduling him for the next day was our last attempt to get him on tape, or we’d have to run the piece without his input.
“I knew this guy would cause problems,” I said. “I just didn’t think he’d ruin all my perfect anniversary plans.”
Noah settled into his favorite chair, studying my face with that patient look of his. “What was his excuse for missing the interview today?”
“A sore throat.” I rolled my eyes. “Last week, it was dry eye.”
“What if he doesn’t show tomorrow?”
My eyes narrowed. “I will hunt him down.”
Noah laughed, and the warm sound, so big and rich, had me nuzzling into the pillow.
“I miss you,” I whispered. “I wish we could do all the things I had planned for us tomorrow.”
“I miss you too.” He smiled, a crooked tilt of his lips. “Does this mean I still get the private chef for myself?”
When I glared into the phone screen, his grin widened.
“Just asking,” he said, lifting one hand in concession.
“The stuffed French toast he was going to make for breakfast,” I sighed. “It sounded so amazing.”
“It did.”
“Now I’ll be eating overpriced room service while I count down the hours until my flight leaves.”
“You said the room service was good.”
“Not Churro French Toast stuffed with raspberry compote good,” I argued.
“Touch?.” He scratched the side of his jaw, and I studied all that dark hair. This was his new thing—growing out his facial hair in the fall and winter. I loved it. “What are you up to the rest of the day? Since you won’t be getting on a plane and all.”
I blew out a hard breath. “I’m going to head back into the filming location in a little bit. There’s some follow up they’re filming with one of the principles because we need new takes, and I want to make sure they don’t get off track.” I gave him another pouty look. “I really wish I was getting on that plane, though.”
“I know,” Noah murmured. “I do too. The house is really empty and quiet, and I hate it.”
“Are you saying I’m loud?”
“Yes.”
I laughed. “Fair enough.”
“Well … if you’re going to go do some work, maybe I’ll do the same,” Noah said around a yawning stretch.
Mmm. I loved when he was all sleepy and stretchy and tired. It made me want to curl up with him in our big bed for the rest of the day.
“What’s that look?” he said.
My face went warm. “Just thinking about you and our bed and things that can’t happen until I get home.”
Noah blew out a breath. “I hate your job.”
I laughed. “No you don’t.”
He grinned. “Go get some work done. We’ll have other anniversaries, okay?”
I nodded, but my throat felt tight and my eyes dry and hot. He gave me a sad smile.
“I’m not gonna cry,” I promised. “I just … miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
We disconnected the call after saying our I love yous, and I only sniffled for a few minutes.
But I splashed some water on my face, reapplied a coat of mascara and left the hotel room with my laptop bag tucked tight against my side. It was strange, thinking about how fast five years had gone. Our life was crazy, and I absolutely loved it.
We managed all the travel and the competing schedules with the kind of intentional time alone that I’d planned for our anniversary, and we both knew that once we were able to start a family (hopefully soon because the thought of Noah with a baby in his arms made me want to pin him down in bed with regularity), things would slow and steady out.
Still be crazy, of course, just crazy in a different way.
There was no one else I wanted to navigate it with, and even thinking about him—no matter how disappointed I was—added just enough pep into my step as I waited for my Uber to bring me back to the studios.
The distraction of work helped, and six hours later, I schlepped my sore feet back through the hotel lobby, up to my hotel room—the shoes were gone immediately—and fell face first into bed.
When my phone dinged on my nightstand, I blinked awake—I’d crashed for a solid hour without even meaning to fall asleep in the first place—and smiled when I saw a text from my husband.
Noah: Are you back from getting some work done?
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.