Page 5 of Bred

“I guess you could say that my priorities changed, and I let myself get consumed with other things.”

I nodded, serious again. “My favorite thing about priorities, Loren, is that they do change. They evolve. Just like the people controlling them. And I want this too. I want the baby, the family. I can’t remember a single thing about my parents. I intend to give my children everything, including a chance at the company our family worked so hard to build.”

Loren’s eyes were fast on mine, and my chest heaved, but I pushed on. “Let’s make an honest try of it, shall we?”

Loren smiled, and for a moment, my heart stuttered in my chest. “I think that sounds like the best deal I’ve heard yet. Let’s go get married.”

CHAPTER THREE

LOREN

Callmewhatyoulike, but I knew I was a coward. After the wedding, I found myself hiding down in the kitchen, the farthest room from my bedroom, making sure that my new wife was as far away from me as she could possibly get. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go find her—in fact, it was the very opposite. Ever since I faced her at the makeshift altar out in the yard, her wide blue eyes so completely focused on mine, I’d been torn in half.

And I’d kissed her, ever so slightly. A peck, really. But it had rattled me down to my foundation. I shook my head, slamming the bowl of freshly whipped cream down on the countertop. I never should’ve touched her. She would regret this whole arrangement in the morning. Maybe even now. No woman wanted to be given as a part of some corporate incentive to marry a man twenty years older than her.

Definitely not ones who looked like my new wife.

I had already set us up for failure in this arrangement. Going into business with her grandfather was one of the worst things I could’ve done. But now that I was here, a new wife on my arm, a new partner in my bed—well, I guess I was still a fucking coward.

So, I was doing what my mother always did when she was stressed or didn’t know what to do with my father. I was cooking. It didn’t matter that the caterer left food enough to feed an army for days. I felt like I needed something with my hands, and this was all I could think of. It was ten times easier and better for my brain and made it easier to not think about what I could be doing in my bedroom right now.

With the wife I was avoiding.

The wife who had consumed my every thought since I’d kissed her only a few hours ago. Even now, as I furiously dropped batter into a baking pan, my skin felt tight and hot. My cock ached at the thought of that creamy skin, the pouty pink lips. I could almost picture her now. Was she still in my room? Or had she hidden away too?

Fuck. I owed her an apology. I glanced down at the brownies. Maybe they would help.

“Loren?”

Her voice was soft, hushed in the near silence of the kitchen. I jerked away, surprised to see her tall, slim form in the doorway. She’d sought me out. A strange, surprisingly not-unwelcome warmth bloomed in my chest, even as I tried to stomp it down. Of course she would seek me out. There was no one else besides Erik or me for twenty miles.

The girl was looking for a companion, simple as that.

“Can I come in?”

I grunted. “It’s your kitchen too.” What a fucking gentleman I was tonight.

The smile she gave me was radiant and bright with joy. And instantly I felt even worse. The girl was fucking sunshine, and I preferred myself in shadow.

“Thank you. What are you making?”

I eyed her from under lowered brows as she stepped across the threshold and slipped onto the barstool directly across from me. “Brownies?” she answered for herself.

I grunted again. Rather than the irritation I’d expected, she actually let out a small giggle. “I guess I should’ve guessed. Did grandfather tell you they’re my favorites?”

“No.”

She tilted her head, blue eyes curious. “Was it a good guess? Or perhaps they’re the only thing you know how to bake…”

“I wasn’t making them for you.”

“Ah,” she said, her voice lowering with a twinge of the hurt I’d expected when I hurled it at her. I dropped the bowl into the sink, giving her my back as I took a long, fortifying breath. I couldn’t break. Not yet. I wouldn’t be a part of her regret.

“May I?” she said quietly from behind.

Since I told myself I didn’t care what she was doing, I just shrugged, turning the faucet on for a few moments before looking back to her.

Wren had leaned across the wide island, her T-shirt gaping at the neck as she extended one finger in an effort to swipe the edge of the whipped cream bowl.