Nolan took his pledge to handle the wedding arrangements personally with utmost seriousness.
By late Tuesday afternoon, Miranda found herself nestled in the oversized leather chair in his home office, watching with amusement as he battled with a florist like he was negotiating a high-stakes business acquisition.
"For the last time," Nolan growled, pinching the bridge of his nose, his phone pressed tightly against his ear. "No pink whatsoever. She doesn't like pink. I don't like pink. Nobody in this house likes pink. Stick to whites, cream, greens—anything but goddamn pink."
Miranda bit her lip, trying to contain her laughter behind her hand.
There was something incredibly endearing about watching Nolan Shelton, this powerful, usually composed executive, completely unraveling over flower arrangements. And all for her.
She observed quietly, letting that realization wash over her.
