Page 21 of Brewer Family Collection, Part 1

Ever . I flinch. Easy, Brewer .

The unexpected blast of jealousy catches me off guard. I wipe my mouth with a linen napkin, keeping my eyes on my plate.

“What about you?” she asks, switching gears. “What do you have for dinner?”

“Depends on where we are in the season. A protein, sometimes fish, green vegetables. I like sweet potatoes, pasta.”

“Do you cook?”

I chuckle. “Nope. I order out. It’s my specialty.”

“Well, I love to cook. It’s the only domestic gene I possess.

It reminds me of being with my grandmother and my mom, breaking green beans in the summer.

Canning tomatoes. Sunday dinners with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and too many salads to keep track of.

” She smiles sadly. “I can’t smell fried food without thinking about my childhood. ”

I reach across the table without thinking about it and lay my hand on hers. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and full of appreciation.

Blakely has told me that she misses her mom and wants a family of her own so she’s not alone. I’ve heard what she’s said. But this moment, this look on her face, tells me more about what she wants and needs than any story she’s ever shared.

My throat squeezes as I pull my hand away.

“Well, guess what?” I say. “I have a massive kitchen with every gadget in the world. You can cook anything you want, and I promise to eat it.”

She bites her lip and returns her attention to her plate. “What about you? Did your mom cook for you when you were little?”

“Hell no.” I laugh. “She had six kids with six schedules and six sets of friends—and a husband that might come home at four in the afternoon or four in the morning. Unless it was a holiday, we were probably ordering food. She gave up trying to wrangle us while I was still in elementary.”

“Your mom was super sweet today.”

I take a sip of my wine. “Yeah, well, she’s having the best day of her life—I assure you.”

“Can I ask you why she’s so lovely and your dad … isn’t?” She sets her fork on her plate. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask, so I apologize if it’s too personal.”

I sit back in my chair and study her. What an impressive, unique woman .

I’ve never been with someone who asks questions to actually get to know me— the real me . Someone who seems to care. Blakely isn’t pushing or prodding, but she does have an honest curiosity to get to know things about me that aren’t superficial. And I like it. Probably too much .

“Mom was always around,” I say. “She got us off to school, came to the principal’s office when Jason and I got suspended—which happened more than I care to admit.”

She grins, sipping her wine.

“You know, she was at our practices, games, and science fairs. But Dad …” I take a drink and let it settle in my stomach. “He was busy. I don’t fault him for that. I respect it. But he has this warped sense of reality.”

“What do you mean?”

I shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it.

It’s as if the only things that matter to him are the things he can write down.

The things that get written down. It’s really just a personality conflict between him and me.

He gets along fine with my siblings. Well, he and Tate butt heads— stop looking at me like that . ”

“Sorry. I’m just excited to get more info about Tate.”

The energy shifts around us, and I place my glass on the table. There’s a challenge on her face, in her words, and whether she’s ready for it or not— I am .

“You’re going to pay for that,” I say.

She lifts a brow. “Promise?”

I don’t answer her, letting her sit with her question and ponder the answer. Instead, I drink my wine and study her pretty face. My wife’s pretty face .

This might be the best mistake I’ve ever made.

“I have something for you,” I say finally.

“What’s that?”

Her tone tells me what she thinks, or hopes, I mean. She’s not wrong. But not yet .

“It’s a birthday present,” I say. “I know nothing can top me as your gift, but I wanted to try.”

She laughs.

I slip the pink box from my pocket and hand it to her. Her eyes widen as it sits in her palm.

“What is this?” she asks.

“Open it.”

I hold my breath as she lifts the top from the box. When she gasps, I exhale.

“Renn! What the hell did you do?” she asks, a laugh painting her words.

“It’s your wedding ring. I mean, if you like it.”

She tears her eyes away from the diamonds. “What do you mean, if I like it ? It’s …” She laughs in disbelief. “Did you actually buy this?”

“What is it with you thinking I’m stealing shit? First, it was babies, and now it’s rings.”

Her cheeks flush. I can feel the warmth run through my body.

“Look, cutie. This is a real marriage, even if it’s only for a short time. And I’m not about to let anyone think I’d marry you and not treat you like a queen.”

“You don’t think it’s over the top? Should I give it back to you when we get divorced? Yeah,” she says hurriedly. “I should. Of course, I should.”

“Blakely.”

She sucks in a breath.

“That’s yours. I want you to have it.” I start to tell her to do whatever she wants with it once we divorce, but I can’t make myself say the words out loud. It would break the moment.

No, it would probably break more than just the moment. I like this woman . I may not have ever thought I’d marry her, but now that I have, I want her to have everything she wants … which seems like such a one-eighty from my usual position. But this is Blakely . Everything is different.

“Please keep it,” I say. “I bought it for you. I hoped you’d like it.”

“In that case, thank you. You’ve blown my mind a little bit.”

Just wait until later …

I take the box from her and remove the ring. My heart pounds as I slip the delicate band around her left finger.

She lifts her hand in the air. “Now I get it.”

“Get what?”

She places her hands on her lap. “That’s why you got my nails done. Because you knew you were putting a ring on one of them.”

I smile.

“You, Mr. Brewer, are doing extremely well on your first day as a husband.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” Her eyes darken. “But you could do better.”

I hum, pressing my shoulder blades against the chair to keep from grabbing her and proving her right.

She stands between my knees, bumping one with the side of her thigh to make more room. The contact sends a shock through my system until it pools in my cock.

The heat of her gaze—how it tells me exactly what she wants—is palpable. The parting of her lips, her hair falling to one side, and the slow, sexy smile that slips across her face makes it very hard to resist.

I lift my chin until our eyes lock. What do you want, Blakely? Tell me.

“So you’re my husband now,” she says, gripping the arms of my chair and boxing me in. The top of her dress hangs low and exposes the top of her cleavage. “That means I can kiss you whenever I want, right?”

I smirk.

She holds my gaze and slowly, deliberately lowers her mouth.

Fucking hell .

Her lips are soft, silky—pillowy against my own. She holds my face as she moves her mouth against mine.

My blood burns hot. Every muscle tenses. My fingers itch to touch, feel, and claim every part of her as mine.

Her lips, sweet from the wine, part and allow my tongue to slip inside. She combs her fingers through my hair as I deepen the kiss, scraping her nails across my scalp.

I bite her bottom lip, eliciting a yelp, just as I palm the backs of her thighs and tug her closer. She sags against me. Her mouth opened for my use, her neck falling to the side to offer me access.

Blakely moans into my mouth, sending a shock wave spiraling through me. I chuckle. She wraps my hair in her fists and tugs my head back.

Heat radiates from her pussy, warming my fingers that are gripping her inner thighs. She spreads her legs farther to encourage me to continue their ascent toward her opening.

I want her. My God, I want her . I want her so badly that I could crawl out of my skin … but I don’t.

Instead, I sweep my tongue across her lips. Dig my fingertips into her smooth skin. Absorb the weight of her chest pressed into me.

And then release her. I pull away.

Blakely pants, struggling to regain her composure. The taste of her lingering on my mouth does nothing to quell my ache for her. My painful, desperate need to be deep inside her.

“What?” she asks, her eyes wild. “Why did you stop?”

“Because you haven’t begged.”