For a second, Chelle didn’t know what to say. Here he was asking her, not assuming or mansplaining or any of the other bullshit. Yes, part of her wanted to yell “release the hounds” so the pugs could bite Suzanne’s and Buckley’s ankles bloody. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t help things in the long run.

No, for that she needed to get devious. And she had just the plan.

“That. Is. It. I have had enough.” She grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and chugged the whole thing as her uncle and Suzanne watched slack-jawed. When she shoved the empty glass into the top of the cake, it caused enough of a distraction that she had a second or two to not be the center of attention for everyone except Nash. He never took his eyes off of her.

She shot him a look that all but screamed “go with me on this” but couldn’t say a word before everyone—and yeah, literally every pair of eyeballs in the room—was staring at her.

She glared at Nash. “I can’t take it anymore. The constant advice no one ever asks for. The ‘well actually’ monologues. The diatribes that start with ‘you know.’ The verbal pats on the head because there’s no way I could understand anything—even something as simple as how to walk my cat on a leash.”

He flinched back, squinting at her in confusion. “Those were all good ideas.”

Fuck.

She thought he’d seen the look, would understand. She was debating shutting her entire plan down when he gave her a quick wink. Warmth washed through her, and she reached deep down for all the past resentments and frustrations from being pushed around by misogynistic assholes like her uncle.

“Oh yeah,” she said, really leaning into the rush that came along with making a scene. “And moving my furniture just because you thought only you could pick the best place for my coffee table?”

The dogs wiggled in his arms, but Nash made holding them in place look easy. “But the cat—”

She interrupted without hesitation as the crowd stopped pretending to be doing anything but watching this trash fire. “Sir Hiss was fine with things the way they were before you barged into our lives and then repainted my kitchen!”

“If we’re married—even temporarily—isn’t it our kitchen?”

“Is your name on the deed?” She crossed her arms and drew herself up to her full height. “No, it’s not, so it’s my kitchen and you had no right to change my canary yellow paint. You don’t get to control me!”

“Is there anything I am allowed to do?” Nash asked. “Or am I supposed to sit quietly in a corner rather than be ordered around like a puppy?”

“Oh, come on, we both know there were plenty of times when you wanted to be told exactly what to do,” she scoffed.