(Jay's POV)
The sun was hitting my face with the kind of aggression usually reserved for debt collectors.
I groaned, peeling my cheek off Keifer's chest, which was essentially a heated marble slab. We had done it. We had survived the "Great Academic Massacre of London."
My brain felt like a browser with seventy-two tabs open, and all of them were playing different music. But as I looked at Keifer—who managed to look like a Greek god even with sleep-crust in his eyes—I remembered his "Genius Consultant" performance.
He hadn't just saved my degree; he'd saved my sanity.
"Morning, wifey," he rumbled, his voice deep enough to vibrate through the mattress.
"Don't 'wifey' me yet," I croaked, stumbling toward the bathroom. "I need coffee and a new personality. This one is broken."
The Invitation to Disaster
Two days later, the "Academic Crisis" was replaced by something much scarier:
The London Elite Career Gala.
I was sitting at the kitchen island, staring at a gold-embossed invitation that looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe. Alex had sent it. It wasn't just a party; it was a "networking event" where people with three last names went to talk about stocks and how much they loved kale.
"Keifer," I said, pointing a trembling finger at the card. "We can't go. I don't know how to network. The last time I 'networked,' I ended up teaching a bartender how to do the Macarena."
Keifer walked over, looking disgustingly sharp in a simple grey sweatshirt. He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. "You're going. You're my secret weapon."
"I'm a butter knife at a sword fight, Keifer!" I wailed. "They're going to ask me about the 'Global Economic Shift,' and I'm going to tell them I buy shoes when I'm sad to stimulate the economy."
He laughed, that low, rich sound that always made my heart do a backflip. "That's actually a valid theory of consumer spending, Jay. See? You're a natural."
The Transformation
Keifer spent the afternoon being the ultimate gentleman. He didn't make fun of my panic; he managed it. He sat me down and played "Career Fair Roleplay."
"Okay," he said, adjusting an imaginary tie. "I am Lord Posh-ington, CEO of Money and Things. Tell me, Mrs Jay Watson , what is your vision for the future?"I stared at him. "To not be hungry in fifteen minutes?"
He didn't roll his eyes. Instead, he winked. "Perfect. We'll call that 'Sustainable Resource Management.' You're brilliant."
He picked out my dress—a sleek, wavery yellow number that made me look like I actually had my life together—and spent thirty minutes helping me zip it up because my hands were shaking too much.
He didn't rush me. He just held my waist and whispered, "You're the smartest person in any room, mostly because you're the only one who isn't a boring robot."
The Gala: Chaos in Emerald
The venue was dripping in chandeliers and people who looked like they hadn't eaten a carb since 2012. As soon as we walked in, a swarm of suits surrounded Keifer.
"Keifer! The Stochastic Frontier model you published—"
"Keifer, our firm needs a consultant with your 'Genius' reputation—"I felt myself shrinking.
I was halfway to the snack table to hide behind a giant block of cheese when Keifer's hand caught mine. He didn't let me slip away. He pulled me right into the center of the circle.
"Gentlemen," Keifer interrupted the CEO of some giant bank. "I'd like you to meet the person who actually keeps my 'Genius' in check. My wife, Jay." (His confident to actually tell me as his wife instead of fiancé, but I actually love it!)
The CEO looked at me like I was a strange species of beetle. "Ah, and what is your field of interest, young lady?"
My brain went blank. I saw a waiter walking past with a tray of tiny, fancy appetizers. "I specialize in... Micro-Asset Distribution," I said, my voice high and squeaky.
Keifer didn't miss a beat. "She's being modest. She's currently analyzing the logistics of luxury catering and its impact on social networking efficiency."
The CEO nodded, looking impressed. "Fascinating! The ROI on these galas is often debated."
I blinked. I had just talked about a tray of spring rolls, and Keifer had turned it into a Harvard thesis. He was literally translating my nonsense into "Genius" in real-time.
The Flirty Escape
By 10:00 PM, I was exhausted from being "Brilliant." Keifer noticed me shifting in my heels.
He leaned down and whispered into my ear, his breath hot against my skin."Wifey, your High-Frequency Consumption Trends are telling me you want to go home and eat pizza in your pajamas. Am I right?"
"Is your genius intuition ever wrong?" I whispered back."Never," he said, grabbing my hand.
As we snuck out the back entrance, escaping the stuffy air, he pulled me into the shadows of the stone pillars. The London city lights were reflecting in his eyes, making him look like a movie star.
We reached home back clicking the door shut behind us and throwing ourselves like a broken souls. (Consider it for me only because Keifer has extra energy installed in him that never ever runs out!)
"You did amazing," he said, pinning me gently against the wall. "No one even suspected you were thinking about tacos the whole time."
"That's because you kept lying for me!" I laughed, hitting his chest. "You're a terrible influence."
"I'm a gentleman," he corrected, catching my wrists and holding them above my head. "A gentleman always protects his wife's reputation. Even if she wants to talk to billionaires about shoes and pizza."
"And what does the Consultant get as a reward for his services tonight?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from mine. "I think you know exactly what my fee is, Jay."
I pulled him down for a kiss that felt a lot more like a victory than any university grade ever could.
(Next morning)
I was tangled in the sheets of our London apartment, feeling like a human burrito, when I felt Keifer's arm pull me back into his chest.
"Morning, wifey," he murmured, his voice sounding like gravel and honey."Is it?" I grumbled into his neck. "Because my brain feels like it's been through a blender."
"That's just the knowledge of 'Stochastic Frontiers' settling in," he teased, kissing my temple. "Since it's the last day of our vacation, I had a whole day of 'Jay-time' planned. Breakfast by the Chef hubby of yours, a walk in the park, and absolutely zero talk about economics."
I perked up instantly. "Wait, really? No graphs? No pizza-metaphors? Just us?"
"Just us," he promised.
The Great Betrayal
An hour later, I was in the kitchen, humming a song and trying to decide which dress made me look more like a "relaxed vacation girl" and less like a "student who hasn't slept in forty-eight hours."
Keifer was in the living room, but he was unusually quiet. I walked out, toast in hand. "Keifer, do you think the floral dress or the—"I stopped. He wasn't looking at dresses. He was staring at his laptop with the same "Genius Consultant" focus that usually meant trouble.
"Jay," he said, and my heart sank. That was his 'I-have-bad-news' voice.
"No," I said, pointing my toast at him. "Do not say the word 'meeting.' We are on vacation. The university is a scam, remember? We decided this!"
He looked genuinely pained. "My firm in Manila just called an emergency board meeting. Some high-level investors are losing their minds over a merger, and apparently, I'm the only one who can talk them off the ledge. It's remote, but it's going to take at least three hours."
I threw my head back and groaned at the ceiling. "Three hours? On our last day? Keifer, I was going to make you take aesthetic photos of me for three hours!"
He stood up, walking over to wrap his arms around my waist. He looked so good in his white button-down shirt—even with the sleeves rolled up—that it was hard to stay mad. "I'm sorry, love. How about this? You become my 'Chief of Staff' for the day. You help me prep, you handle my coffee, and I'll pay you in whatever currency you want."
"I only accept 'Shopping and Pizza' credits," I narrowed my eyes. "Deal," he smirked, kissing my nose. "Now, help me find my tie. I have a 'Genius Consultant' reputation to maintain."
The "Assistant" for a Day
By 10:00 AM, the living room had been transformed into a "War Room." Keifer was sitting at the dining table, looking like a billionaire CEO, while I was sitting on the rug with a notebook, feeling like an undercover agent.
"Okay, Assistant wifey, " Keifer said, checking his watch. "The meeting starts in five minutes. I need you to stay off-camera, keep the coffee flowing, and if I look like I'm about to fall asleep from boredom, throw a grape at me."
"I can do that," I said, saluting him. "But if I'm your assistant, I need a desk."
I dragged a bunch of floor cushions over, set up my laptop, and put on a pair of fake glasses I found in my drawer. "Look, I'm professional now. I'm Jay, the Executive Director of Snacks."
He laughed, leaning down to give me a quick, lingering kiss. "You're the cutest director I've ever hired. Now, shh. They're logging in."
The "Hot Husband" Incident
The meeting was boring. I'm talking "watching-paint-dry" boring. A group of men in suits kept talking about "synergies" and "capital expenditures." I was busy doodling a picture of Keifer as a superhero when I noticed something.
Keifer was being his usual "Silent Authority" self. He wasn't saying much, but every time he spoke, the older men on the screen stopped and listened like he was the Oracle of London.
I looked at him—the way his jawline moved when he talked, the way his fingers tapped the table. He looked so hot.
Forget being a professional assistant. I started humming a little song to myself, completely forgetting that Keifer's high-tech microphone could pick up a pin drop.
"Oh, my husband is a genius,
but he's also a snack...
I want to buy a handbag and
he's got my back...
Look at that jawline,
so sharp it could cut bread...
I'd rather be cuddling him in
our big comfy bed..."
I was really getting into the rhythm, using my pen as a microphone, when I noticed the screen. The five billionaire investors had frozen.
Keifer had his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking not in nervousness but in little embarrassment.
"Uh, Keifer?" one of the investors said, sounding confused. "Is... is there someone singing about bread and handbags in your office?"
My heart stopped. I dropped my pen and dived under the table.Keifer didn't panic. He just leaned into the microphone, his voice smooth and dangerously calm.
"My apologies, gentlemen. That was just my Chief Operations Officer conducting a live 'Vibe Audit' of our current strategy. She feels the current ROI is lacking in 'Snack Potential.' "
I heard a few chuckles from the speakers. "Well, she's not wrong," another investor laughed. "The market is low on snack potential today."
The Reward
When the meeting finally ended, Keifer slammed the laptop shut and let out a long breath. He didn't even wait. He reached under the table and hauled me out, pulling me right onto his lap.
"So," he teased, his eyes dark with amusement. "My jawline can cut bread, can it?"
"I hate you," I squeaked, hiding my face in his shoulder. "I'm fired. I'm firing myself. I'm retiring from the corporate world forever."
"You can't retire," he whispered, his hands steady on my waist. "I haven't paid my Consultant her bonus yet."
"What bonus?" I asked, looking up.He didn't say a word. He just leaned in and kissed me—a long, slow kiss that tasted like victory and "Jay-time."
"I think the board of directors would agree," he murmured against my lips, "that having a singing wifey is much better for business than any economic model."
"Fine," I sighed, wrapping my arms around his neck. "But you're still buying me that pizza."
"Wifey," he grinned, "I'll buy you the whole pizza shop."