“The party alone is probably going to be enough to give him a heart attack,” she says gruffly, and then her eyes widen in horror. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean that.” She looks up to the ceiling. “If there’s anyone listening, please, I’m begging you with everything I’ve got, don’t let Papa have a heart attack at my wedding.” She crosses herself, something I’ve never seen her do, so that must mean it’s a serious prayer.

“Violet, no one can control what happens. Not even you, Control Freak Russo. But there are some things you can control. Would that make you feel better?”

She eats another bite but nods. “Probably,” she mumbles around a mouthful of cherry fudge.

I pull out a notepad and pen. “All right, hit me. What’s on your to-do list? Wedding dress, bridesmaid dress, decorations, flowers, invitations? Tell me everything.”

“Why?” she asks, shoveling in another bite, and I smile, surprised at how adorable she looks curled up on the couch, open and talking with me as she messily eats ice cream. I’m so not going to tell her about the tiny dribble of ice cream on her chest, even though it’s driving me mad. I want to lick it off so badly.

“So I can help you,” I answer, the duh barely held back.

“Archie and Abi are already helping me, and Kaede and Archie talked for over an hour the other day. I think at least half of it was about the wedding. I hope it was, at least,” she offers as protest.

“Right, but that’s them. And I’ll coordinate with them, of course, to help where they need me because sometimes, I can grease wheels they can’t.” I rub my index finger and thumb together, knowing that money talks, especially when we’re talking a big event in fast order. “But it’s my wedding too, might I remind you, and I want to be involved. So tell me your vision because I know you have one. Lay out the whole Pinterest board, Instagram-worthy dream on me.”

And like the magic elixir I knew it would be, the ice cream loosens her lips.

She tells me about her dress search and then describes what she’s looking for as I take notes. I vow to myself to call every bridal shop in the city and have them bring similar dresses to Vi’s office as soon as possible. That way, she can try them on and barely miss a beat at work.

She talks about Abi doing the invitations and how they need to be mailed out immediately, likely with priority postage. I volunteer the mailroom clerk at the office to handle that, knowing that a bonus and some genuine appreciation will go a long way in checking that off quickly.

She goes on and on. Venue . . . booked, but needs updated payment info, which I can do over the phone. Food . . . I’ll rent out the finest Italian restaurant for the day so they can cater the wedding. Decorations . . . totally an Archie job, but if he needs a spare pair of hands, Kaede can help. Flowers . . . Abi, of course.

Beyond her family, a lot of her stress is in the length of the to-do list and the short time frame. And I’m not too proud to throw money at it if it’ll help, and for so many things on the list, it will. If that’s all it takes to make this the wedding of Violet’s dreams, I’m happy to do it.

As she wraps up, I can tell that some of the weight is lifting off her shoulders. “You’ll really help with all that, Ross?” she asks uncertainly.

“Of course,” I reassure her. “Also, I think we should hire a wedding planner.” Her mouth is already arguing against it, but I steamroll right over her. “Not because you can’t do it all, but because you need someone to delegate to so you can keep all the balls juggling. And on our wedding day, while you’re getting ready, you need someone who knows your vision inside and out to keep it running smoothly. They will do exactly what you tell them to, Control Freak.”

She pinkens but shakes her head finally, agreeing. “Fine.”

That was easier than I expected. We’re doing better. “But there is one thing.”

I take the ice cream and spoon from her hands, setting them on the coffee table as she protests. “What are you—”

I set my notepad down too and reach to the floor beside the couch, coming back with an elegantly wrapped box, complete with a fluffy bow, which I hand to her.

“What’s this?” she asks. I don’t answer, instead getting up to take her ice cream to the kitchen. She opens it slowly, like she’s afraid snakes are going to jump out of the box and scare her.

But when she spreads the layers of white tissue apart and sees what’s inside the box, her brows knit together in confusion. “What?” she asks again, her eyes jumping to me.

“You seemed uptight. Thought you could use a little bit of fun,” I explain.

And then, faster than a flash, I pull out my own Nerf gun and blast off a round her way. “Gotcha,” I yell before the soft bullet even lands. “Bullseye!” It hit her right in the cheek next to her gaping mouth.

“Are you serious right now?” she shouts.

I’m off, ducking around the kitchen counter and hiding behind the dining room table, definitely signaling that I’m deadly serious. This is war . . . Nerf war.

“Oh, it’s on like Donkey Kong!” Her voice is already lighter, brighter than the overwhelmed and stressed Violet she was just a moment ago. Those issues are still looming, her Papa and the wedding, but that doesn’t mean we can’t take a break to just let loose a bit.