Marlowe
Cricket stood at the head of the rehearsal dinner table, a folded piece of paper clutched in one hand, and cleared his throat with the particular self-important gravity of a man who believed, with total sincerity, that he was about to deliver the finest toast this club had ever witnessed.
"I'd like to begin," he announced, "with a brief history of the betting pool that predicted this exact moment, spanning considerably longer than either the bride or groom probably realize—"
"Absolutely not." Nova snatched the paper directly out of his hand before he could get another word out. "We are not doing seventy percent inside jokes about your gambling habits at Marlowe's rehearsal dinner, Cricket."
"It's sixty percent, actually, I did the math—"
"That's not better."
The whole table d
