Page 24

THEY CALL IT PUPPY LOVE

Luke

I stare up at the ceiling as the alarm on my phone plays a stupid song, one that is just annoying and loud enough to wake me from even the deepest slumber.

But I don’t need the stupid alarm song today.

I haven’t needed it for two weeks. My morning alarm has become irrelevant because for some reason, ever since Dean entered my bedroom, my body has become attuned to when it’s alone and refuses to stay asleep if he’s not here in the bed with me.

Which is frustrating, because for all of his insistence on sharing a bed now that we’re married, Dean is never, ever here when I wake up.

Begrudgingly, I grab my phone to silence the alarm, then run my hand over his side of the bed. It’s already cool, just like it was yesterday morning, and the morning before that, and the morning before that. Which shouldn’t bother me.

Why should it bother me? Dean is an early riser. Ever since he moved in, he’s been the first one out of bed, the one who changes Ollie’s overnight diaper and wakes Lem and Mel before corralling them downstairs for bowls of Cheerios and sliced bananas all before I wake up and shower.

It shouldn’t bother me that he wants to fall asleep next to me but isn’t there when I wake up.

But it does, and it has me feeling extra cranky this morning.

So cranky, in fact, that I decide I’m going to confront Dean today.

I need to know why he sneaks out of bed every morning when it was his idea that we sleep together in the first place.

Maybe we need to revisit the notes app rulebook and define some boundaries, because this marriage of convenience is already becoming an inconvenience for my head—and my pride.

I sulk through my morning routine, grumpily trimming my beard over the bathroom sink—let me tell you, it’s not easy to keep a beard straight and clean when you’re frowning.

After my shower, I all but stomp down the back stairs that lead to the kitchen, ready to unleash my cranky attitude on my husband, but I stop halfway down the stairs when I hear happy conversation floating up from the kitchen table.

“Esta es…”

“?Un plátano!”

“?Sí! Y esta es…”

“?La leche!”

“?Sí! mis pollitas son las más inteligentes.”

I smile to myself as I listen to the back-and-forth between Dean, Lemmie and Mellie. He’s been teaching them a bit of Spanish, and it’s the most adorable thing. I love hearing how proud they are of themselves when he points to things around us and they name the objects correctly.

“Well, it’s like the United Nations here!

” I say as I round the corner and head to the kitchen island, where I know the tamper on the espresso machine is packed with fresh ground beans and ready for me to hit brew for my morning Americano.

My favorite mug is already settled underneath the spout.

There are two slices of whole wheat bread sitting in Gigi’s yellow toaster, ready to be crisped into toast with the push of a button.

A plate with three sliced strawberries and a butter knife sits next to the toaster, along with a jar of sugar free peanut butter.

The whole thing is set up exactly to my liking every day. I come downstairs to find my breakfast prepped and ready to be warmed as soon as I’m ready for it.

And suddenly, I feel really stupid. I’ve spent the last week being annoyed every morning that my not-quite-fake-but-not-really- real husband isn’t in my bed when I wake up, but it’s only because he’s down here.

Taking care of me and my kids. Feeding us, getting us ready, setting our days up for success.

And instead of thanking him, I’ve been sulking.

I’m such an idiot. Dean didn’t marry me to be my bed-buddy. He married me to help me secure custody of my kids. He married me to help me parent. He married me because he’s my friend.

I need to do a better job of remembering that.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment, and I turn my face down while I fiddle with the espresso machine so Dean can’t see the red creeping across my skin. Unnecessary, probably, since he’s fully focused on helping Ollie spear a piece of banana pancake on her purple baby fork, even as he talks to me.

“I think we’d better get Mensa on the horn. Lemmie and Mellie are brilliant. And Ollie, too! Oh babe, you should’ve seen it. I said “las frutillas” and Ollie picked a strawberry right up off of her tray. It was incredible!”

I chuckle, pressing the button on the toaster and watching the heating elements inside slowly light up into a reddish-orange glow.

“Was it incredible, or were there just strawberries in Miss Grabby Hands’ general vicinity?

” I ask with a laugh. Of course I want to believe that all my kids are geniuses, but Ollie is still working on her fine motor skills, and that means grabbing anything she can get her adorable, chubby little hands on.

“If I recall, it took you six months to master “?Nos echamos un polvo?” before our week in Buenos Aires a few years back,” he teases, and I scoff.

“It’s a hard language to learn! And excuse me for not being a child whose brain is still a sponge made to absorb vast amounts of knowledge on a second-by-second basis.

” My toast pops, and I drop the slices onto the plate and immediately smother each slice in peanut butter so that it gets nice and melty, exactly how I like it.

Just as I’m strategically placing the strawberry slices across the toast so that I get a perfect amount of fruit, peanut butter, and bread in each bite, I feel Dean step up behind me.

He moves in close until his chest is just barely brushing my back and places his hands on the counter on either side of me.

“You’re right. It’s difficult to learn a new language as an adult. But I can’t say I was too upset that you didn’t end up hooking up with any hotties in Argentina,” Dean says in a low voice, leaning in until his lips are right by ear. “Good morning, husband.”

He punctuates the murmured greeting with a soft, slow kiss to my cheek that lingers just long enough for goosebumps to form on my arms.

He’s gone as quickly as he arrived, which is a good thing since I was about half a second away from leaning back against his chest just to feel his body pressed against mine.

Swallowing down the wave of lusty yearning that has been threatening constantly to pull me under, I take my plate of toast, grab my Americano from under the drip of the espresso machine and join the girls at the table.

“I talked to Adriana this morning. We’re all set for the photoshoot and interview,” Dean says I bring a slice of toast to my mouth.

Adriana is his agent and a total shark. She, along with our respective PR teams, has been managing the expectations of the media about mine and Dean’s marriage.

Since we decided we wanted to do a one-and-done explanation, they’ve been shopping our story around to the highest bidder.

I’m about to ask which lucky publication won out when Lem and Mel share a conspiratorial look and start bouncing in their seats .

“Uncle Lukey, guess what?” Mellie asks around a mouthful of Cheerios.

“Finish chewing and then you can tell me,” I say with a playful wink, even though I don’t feel very playful or chill watching her.

I could care less about the kids chewing with their mouths open—they’re little kids, for fuck’s sake, there’s plenty of time for lessons in manners—but I’m terrified of them choking.

I started reading some Mommy Blogs shortly after Gigi’s funeral and they have scarred me for life.

Who knew there were so many ways for little people to potentially kill themselves?

“Dean said we get to have a sleepover tonight!” Lemmie pipes in, unwilling to wait for her sister to finish her cereal before getting to the news.

I see Mellie scowl and in anticipation of the inevitable crash out over her sister stealing her thunder, I reach across the table to offer up double high-fives to distract them before the fighting can begin.

“That’s so cool! But what does it mean? I thought every night was a sleepover?” I ask. Ollie squeals in delight, mashing her fists into her breakfast.

“A sleepover with Cami!” the girls say in unison, and I turn to Dean for confirmation.

“Keeks texted this morning. She’s in the phase where she’s giving Cami everything she asks for before the new baby comes, and Cami asked for a sleepover with her best pals. All of Kira’s girlfriends are bringing their kids over, too. She even offered to take Ollie for the night.”

“Slumber party at the McKenna-Yates house. Sounds like a fun time for Warren,” I smirk, and Dean chuckles.

“Yeah, Kira is really trying to hammer the baby fever out of my poor brother-in-law. Between our girls and Kira’s friends, there will be eight kids all under the age of eight hanging out next door tonight. If that doesn’t do it, I don’t know what will.”

Something pulls taut in my chest when I hear Dean refer to the girls as “ours”. It’s not the first time he’s done it. I don’t even know if he realizes what he’s saying, but that gentle claiming melts me every damn time, anyway.

“Miss Kira said we can come over after ballet today, Uncle Lukey! Can we go? Please please please? All our best friends will be there. Cami, Taylor, Ethan, Henry…”

I can’t help the over zealous grin that spreads across my face as Lem and Mel recite the names of all their friends.

“That sounds like a fun time—” I start to say, just as the back door swings open and Cami comes bursting into the kitchen. Kira strolls in a few seconds later, rubbing a hand over her stomach .

“Did you ask? What did he say? Do you get to come to the slumber party tonight?” Kira—not Cami—asks Lem and Mel as she practically vibrates with energy. The girls turn to me and clasp their hands together while they pout.

“Please please please please please,” they chant, and I hold up a hand while I laugh.

“Of course you can go. And for the record, you didn’t have to wait to ask me for permission. Dean is your grown-up, too. You can ask him things when I’m not around. And when I am around. He’s just as much in charge as I am,” I say, looking at Dean as I do.

Dean’s gaze is soft and gooey as he smiles shyly, looking back and forth between the girls and me.

His bright, grey eyes sparkle with flecks of green, shining with a rare kind of light that only comes out when he’s really happy.

I’ve only seen it a handful of times in our friendship.

The night he won his first Big Game, the day he met baby Cami for the first time, and…

Our wedding day. Dean’s eyes began to shine like the brightest of fireworks right as the judge pronounced us married. The moment right before we crossed every invisible boundary of friendship we’ve built over the years, and?—

“Oh for fuck’s sake, just kiss already,” Kira says, breaking through my thoughts and making me feel like a teenager caught making googly eyes at his crush in class.

“Swear jar!” Mellie, Lemmie, and Cami all call up at Kira, who smoothly reaches into the pocket of her overalls and pulls out three twenty dollar bills, distributing them to the kids without taking her eyes off Dean and me.

My eyes go wide and my throat dries up. The girls start to chant again, this time repeating “kiss, kiss, kiss,” over and over again. Even Ollie has joined in, smacking her little hands on the highchair tray and giggling.

I look over at Dean, who appears to be quite chuffed by this turn of events. He simply smirks, raising an eyebrow at me. I take it as a question, and even though my better judgement tells me that this is probably a terrible idea, I nod in response.

Dean leans forward and I meet him halfway.

He reaches up to cup my cheek and I tilt my head, leaning in to him.

Our lips brush, a barely there touch that I could have blinked and missed, and a jolt of electricity rushes through me, sparking at every nerve like my body is a live wire.

When he presses his mouth into mine for real, I melt like ice cream underneath his touch.

Dean’s lips are soft and warm, pillowy in all the right places and surrounded by the perfect amount of scruff that scratches at my face to remind me just how masculine and virile he is. I almost whimper when he pulls away.

The kiss is quick. A chaste enough peck that is over before it begins, which is a good thing, since we’ve got an audience of littles and my mind and body were veering into the inappropriate lane faster than I had the good sense to stop them.

The girls cheer as we break apart. I pick up my mug and sip just to have something else to do with my lips and hands.

But it doesn’t stop my body from vibrating with the need to be close to him, so much so that I have to makeup an excuse about an early meeting that I need to get on the road for.

I kiss each of my girls on the head before running downstairs to the garage so fast, I’d be surprised if my feet didn’t leave tread marks in their wake.

Once I’m behind the wheel of my Rivian, I finally take what feels like my first full breath of the morning.

This feeling in my chest…I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. Is it nerves? Is it confusion? I could call it puppy love, but I think it might be something much worse.

Only a few weeks of marriage, just two kisses, and I fear I have been irrevocably and forever ruined by my husband.