Page 14 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

My house looks like I'm trying to impress the fucking Queen of England, not a pink-haired pain in my ass with an attitude problem who's carrying my baby.

"You vacuumed the ceiling vents?" Banks stares at me like I've lost my mind, which maybe I have. "Who does that?"

"Shut up." I toss the microfiber cloth I've been using to wipe down the kitchen counters for the third time into the sink.

Every surface shines like it's been polished within an inch of its life.

Even the copper brewing equipment I keep on display in the kitchen sparkles under the pendant lights.

"She's going to be looking for reasons why this was a mistake. I'm not giving her ammunition."

Reed leans against the refrigerator, arms crossed over his chest, barely suppressing a smirk. "Just so we have the whole picture, you slept with your arch nemesis in Vegas, accidentally married her, got her pregnant, and now she's moving in. Did I miss anything?"

"Yeah, the part where you shut the fuck up and help me move this couch two inches to the left." I glare at him. Ever since he found out about Wren and me at the ultrasound appointment, he's been relentless with the teasing.

I can't even blame him. If the situations were reversed, I'd be doing the same thing.

Banks adjusts his position on said couch, which he's been sprawled across for the last hour, offering unhelpful commentary on my cleaning frenzy. "I still can't believe you kept this from us for weeks. Your own sister doesn't even know yet."

The guilt that's been festering in my chest throbs to life to remind me that it’s still there. "I'll tell Clover after Wren's settled. One shitstorm at a time."

"She's going to kick your ass," Banks says, obviously happy it.

"Again, not helping." I check my watch. Wren's due here in twenty minutes. My pulse picks up. "Are those sheets I bought for the guest room out of the dryer yet?"

Reed pushes off the fridge. "I'll check. Though I'm still not clear on why you needed fifteen-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets for your 'temporary roommate.'" He makes air quotes around the words, his expression saying that he’s not buying my bullshit.

"They're not—it's not like that," I snap, even though the heat creeping up my neck probably gives me away. It’s absolutely like that. "She's pregnant. She needs to be comfortable."

"Right." Reed's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Because that's definitely all this is about. Your concern for her comfort."

I flip him off as he disappears down the hallway, calling after him, "You're a shitty friend, you know that?"

His laughter drifts back to me.

Banks finally levers himself off the couch, stretching his tall frame. "You know, for someone who claimed to hate this chick’s guts for the past two years, you're putting in an awful lot of effort."

I focus on straightening a stack of magazines that’re already straight. "I never said I hated her."

"No, you just called her—and I quote—'a pink-haired menace determined to destroy craft brewing as we know it.'"

"That was business," I mutter. "This is different."

Banks studies me for a long moment, his expression shifting from teasing to something more serious. "You like her."

"She's carrying my kid." Yeah, that conversation with my two best friends wasn’t fun. They gave me endless shit and I don’t see it stopping anytime soon.

"And?"

I meet his eyes, sighing. "I don't know what I feel. Everything's happening so fast."

He nods, his expression full of understanding. "For what it's worth, as someone who also started a relationship under less-than-ideal circumstances... sometimes the messy beginnings lead to the best endings."

The memory of his and Clover's rocky start—him moving in and them trying to keep their distance because she’s my sister, and then the storm—flashes through my mind. They managed to find their way through. Maybe Wren and I...

The doorbell rings, cutting off that dangerous train of thought. My heart slams against my ribs.

"Shit, she's early." I run a hand through my hair, tugging my beanie more securely into place. "You guys need to go. Now."

Banks grins. "But I was so looking forward to watching this train wreck."

"Out." I shove him toward the back door just as Reed emerges from the laundry room with his arms full of the sheets.

"The princess' bedding is ready," he says, then catches sight of my face. "What’s going on?"

"Back door. Both of you." I practically push them through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. "I'll call you later."

Reed hands me the sheets. "Remember, she needs to stay calm. Stress is bad for?—"

"I know." I cut him off, anxiety making me more of a dick than usual. "Go."

Banks claps me on the shoulder. "Good luck, man. You're gonna need it."

I close the door on their identical shit-eating grins and take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders like I'm heading into battle. In a way, I am. Living with Wren is going to be... challenging. In so very many ways.

I shove my hand into my pocket and touch the warm metal of my wedding ring. Yeah, that’s still a thing I’m doing. We’re not gonna talk about why.

The doorbell rings again, and I know I’m out of time.

"Coming!" I toss the sheets onto the kitchen counter and stride to the front door, my palms suddenly damp. For fuck's sake, it's just Wren.

Yeah, just Wren. Nothing complicated about her at all.

I swing open the door, and my carefully prepared greeting dies on my lips.

She's standing on my porch in a cropped band t-shirt and high-waisted jeans, her pink hair pulled into a messy ponytail, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a box balanced on her hip.

The late afternoon sunlight catches the tiny silver hoop in her nose, making it glint.

She looks like a goddamn wet dream.

My mouth goes dry.

Bone fuckin’ dry.

"You planning to let me in, or should I just set up camp on your porch?" Her voice is a little snippy, but I catch the nervousness beneath it. She's as freaked out about this as I am.

"Sorry." I step back, holding the door wider. "Need help with that?"

"I've got it." She brushes past me, bringing with her the scent of something that makes my mouth water. Some girly shit I couldn’t hope to describe. My brain immediately flashes to Vegas, to how that scent lingered on my skin until I forced myself to shower it off.

I clear my throat. "Is that all you brought?"

She sets the box down on the entryway table. "Kieran's bringing the rest later. Most of my stuff is in storage now, anyway." Her eyes scan the living room, and I want to ask her who the fuck Kieran is, but I bite my tongue.

She’s taking in the rustic-modern furniture, the vintage beer advertisements framed on the walls, the bookshelf filled with brewing texts and family photos. "It's... not what I expected."

"What were you expecting?"

She shrugs, dropping her duffel bag beside the box. "I don't know. Empty pizza boxes? Beer cans everywhere? A shrine to your ego?"

"That's in the basement," I deadpan. "Right next to my collection of voodoo dolls shaped like pink-haired tyrants."

A small smile flickers across her face before she suppresses it. "Knew it."

The moment stretches between us, and it’s awkward as hell. I've spent the past two days cleaning and prepping for this, but I realize now I have no idea what comes next. How do we do this? How do we live together when we can barely have a civil conversation?

"I'll show you your room." I grab the duffel bag before she can protest. "I was just about to put clean sheets on the bed. New ones, actually." I wince internally at how eager that sounds.

I’m gonna need to grab the sheets off the counter and give them to her, I guess? I doubt she’ll want me in there messing with her bed now that she’s here.

She follows me down the hallway, her footsteps light behind me. I'm hyperaware of her presence, my senses tracking her like she's a predator I need to keep an eye on.

Or what she really is, which is something much more dangerous.

"This is you." I push open the door to the guest room—formerly my home office, now hastily converted into a bedroom.

The desk has been pushed against one wall to make room for the queen-sized bed I bought two days ago.

"Bathroom's across the hall. There are fresh towels in the cabinet. And, uh, I cleared some space in the medicine cabinet for your stuff. I’ll bring the sheets up in a second. "

Wren steps into the room, her gray eyes taking everything in. The neutral walls, the simple furniture, the bay window overlooking the backyard where vines climb a trellis beside the fire pit.

"You didn't have to do all this," she says quietly, running her fingers along the edge of the desk.

"It wasn't a big deal." It was. I spent hours deliberating over the perfect mattress, choosing sheets I thought she'd like, rearranging furniture to maximize the space. "The internet's good in here if you need to work from home. Password's on a sticky note on the desk."

She turns to face me, something unreadable in her expression. "Thank you. This is... really nice, Kasen."

The sound of my name on her lips reminds me of that night. "Like I said, no big deal." I set her bag down beside the bed. "You hungry? I thought I'd make dinner."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "You cook?"

"Don't sound so surprised. I'm a brewer. It's basically liquid cooking."

"That's not—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head. "Sorry. I just assumed..."

"That I'd be subsisting on takeout and beer?" I can't help the small smirk that tugs at my lips. "I'll have you know I make a mean risotto."

"Risotto?" Her lips curve into the first genuine smile I've seen from her today. "Now I'm definitely skeptical."

"Challenge accepted." I find myself smiling back, something warm and a whole lot unsettling taking root in my chest at making her even the tiniest bit happy. And where the fuck did that come from? "Get settled. Dinner’s in an hour."

Back in the kitchen, I pull ingredients from the fridge, trying to ignore the fact that my wife is now officially living in my house. That this is real. That we're doing this.

I've started the rice, and falling into the recipe helps take my mind off everything else.

When she emerges from the bedroom, she's changed into leggings and an oversized sweater, her face freshly washed. I’m surprised she feels comfortable enough to take off her armor around me, but apparently, she does.

She looks softer and younger than I'm used to seeing her, and I want to say something about it, but I also like my balls attached to my body, so I keep my mouth shut.

"Need help?" she asks, hovering at the edge of the kitchen.

"You can chop these if you want." I slide a cutting board with mushrooms toward her. "Or you can just sit. You must be tired from moving."

"I'm pregnant, not helpless." She takes the knife I offer, her fingers brushing mine. I ignore the burst of heat that happens under my skin where she touches me. "Besides, I've been sitting all day while movers did most of the work. It's nice to be up and doing something."

I keep an eye on her while I stir the rice, adding broth bit by bit. She handles the knife like she has no idea how to cook, but it’s fun watching her try.

"So," she says after a few minutes of surprisingly comfortable silence, "what's the deal with all the brewing books in the living room? You doing research for something, or are you just that obsessed with malt and hops?"

"Both." I add another ladle of broth to the rice. "My grandfather was a brewer before the craft scene exploded. Those older volumes were his and when my mom died, they came to me. Some of them have his notes in the margins—recipes he was developing, modifications to traditional techniques."

"That's actually pretty cool." She slides the hacked up mushrooms into the bowl I've set out. "My mom has something similar with feminist literature. Books passed down from her mother, all marked up with thoughts and arguments."

"Your mom's a professor, right?" I vaguely remember Wren mentioning it during one of our less hostile encounters at an industry event.

She nods. "English literature with a focus on feminist theory. She raised me on Virginia Woolf and bell hooks instead of bedtime stories."

"Explains a lot," I mutter, trying not to smile.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice takes on that I’m about to tear you a new asshole tone I'm so familiar with.

"Just that you've got that whole 'take no prisoners' vibe going on. Now I know where it comes from."

She looks like she can't decide whether to be offended or flattered. "She'd like that description, actually. She's all about women claiming their power."

"What does she think about..." I gesture vaguely between us. "This situation?"

Wren's expression closes off immediately. "She doesn't know. No one does except Kieran, and that's only because he's irritatingly observant."

My teeth grind. Fucking Kieran again.

"Banks knows," I admit. "And Reed, but you knew that. They were here earlier, helping me clean." Although they didn’t really do shit to help.

"You cleaned for me?"

"I cleaned because my house was a mess," I lie, concentrating on the risotto. "Don't read into it."

She makes a noncommittal noise, but I can feel her eyes on me, assessing. Probably seeing way too damn much.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, changing the subject. "With the pregnancy, I mean."

"Better in some ways. Worse in others." She hops up to sit on the counter beside the stove, close enough that I can smell her perfume or lotion or whatever it is about her that makes my mouth water.

"The nausea isn't constant anymore, but the exhaustion is kicking my ass.

And everything makes me cry. I saw a commercial for paper towels yesterday and sobbed for ten minutes because the dad and daughter were cleaning up spills together. "

I can't hold back my laugh. "Seriously?"

"Don't you dare laugh at me, Kasen James." But there's a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "This is your fault. Your genes conspiring with mine to turn me into an emotional wreck."

I don’t miss the way her cheeks flush like she’s thinking about something else, maybe remembering that night, but I don’t call her out on it.

"Our genes, huh?" I try to keep my tone light, but something about the casual way she references our shared connection to the growing life inside her makes my chest tighten. "This poor kid doesn't stand a chance with our combined stubbornness."

"God, can you imagine? A tiny person with my ambition and your..." She gestures vaguely at me, waving her hand up and down.

"My what?"

She flushes again. "Your intensity. The way you get when you're focused on something."

"Oh." I hadn't realized she'd noticed that about me. I also don’t think that’s what she was thinking about. "Yeah, that could be a dangerous combination. They might try to take over the world."