Page 16 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

She's naked in my bed again. Naked and pink.

Not just her hair, but her skin where I've touched her, marked her. Dream-Wren looks up at me, intense gray eyes gone soft, and Christ, I want to drown in her. My hands grip her hips, feeling her skin hot under my palms, but every time I try to pull her closer, she slips away like smoke.

I'm yanked from sleep by a crash from the kitchen, followed by muffled cursing. My body reacts before my brain fully engages, muscles tensing as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The red numbers on my alarm clock read one thirteen a.m.

There’s another clatter and then what sounds like a cabinet door slamming shut.

I grab the baseball bat I keep beside my bed and pad silently down the hallway. The light from the refrigerator casts long shadows across the kitchen floor. A small figure is silhouetted against it, head buried deep in the freezer compartment.

"Did you find what you’re looking for?" I ask, lowering the bat.

Wren yelps, jerking upright so fast she smacks her head.

"Fuck me!" She clutches the back of her head, spinning to face me.

Her eyes do a slow-drag up my abs and chest before finally landing on my face.

If I flex a little along the way, sue me.

"What the hell, Kasen? Were you planning to beat me to death with that? "

"The thought crossed my mind." I set the bat against the wall, trying not to notice how the oversized t-shirt she's wearing barely skims the tops of her thighs. It's one of mine—black with the Timber Brewing logo faded from too many washes.

When did she grab that?

And why does seeing her in it with her messy pink hair like she just got fucked make my dick sit up and pay attention? "You were making a fuck ton of noise and I thought someone broke in.”

"Well, I didn’t." She rubs her head, wincing. "I'm just..." she trails off, suddenly looking embarrassed.

"Just what?"

She sighs, shoulders slumping. "I need caramel ice cream. With potato chips. Crushed up and sprinkled on top." Her expression dares me to laugh at her. "I know it sounds disgusting, but I need it right now or I might actually die."

"Ah." Understanding dawns. "The cravings have hit, huh?’

She nods miserably. “I woke up, and it was all I could think about. But all you have is that mint chip and cookie dough from earlier.” She gags and I bite my cheek to keep from laughing. “No caramel." She sounds personally offended by this oversight.

I scratch the back of my neck, trying to focus on her face and not the long expanse of bare leg she’s showing. Seriously, they look like they go on for miles. "Pretty sure there's a twenty-four-hour store about fifteen minutes from here."

Her eyes widen, a flash of hope quickly replaced by wariness. "It's the middle of the night. I'm not asking you to?—"

"I know you're not asking." I'm already turning toward my room to grab a shirt and my shoes. "Let me grab my keys."

"Kasen, wait." Her voice stops me. When I look back, she's biting her lower lip, that tough exterior cracked just enough to let a tiny bit of vulnerability peek through. It’s goddamn captivating. "You don't have to do this."

"I know I don't have to." I shrug like it's no big deal, like I'm not already calculating the fastest route to the store. "But my kid apparently wants caramel ice cream with potato chips, and who am I to argue with that?"

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Your kid has weird taste."

"He gets that from you." I'm rewarded with that little laugh of hers, the genuine one I’ve only heard a couple of times.

Back in my room, I tug on a t-shirt and a pair of joggers, then grab my wallet and keys.

When I return to the kitchen, Wren has moved to perch on one of the barstools, her legs swinging under her.

She looks hot as fuck and for a second, I wish she’d woken up with a different craving and it was me she was straddling right now instead of that stool.

"Anything else you need while I'm out? Pickles?"

She rolls her eyes. "Just the ice cream and chips. Regular, not ridged. The ridged ones are too thick."

"Got it. Regular chips, caramel ice cream. Stay put." I grab my jacket from the hook by the door.

"Hey, Kasen?" Her voice is soft, almost hesitant. Not a tone I'm used to hearing from her.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Two simple words, but for some reason they hit me hard coming from her. "No problem, Pink. Be back soon. Lock the door behind me."

The night air is cool against my face as I slide into my truck.

I sit there for a minute, hands on the wheel, trying to process the surreal turn my life has taken.

A couple of weeks ago, I was filling out divorce papers I couldn't bring myself to file.

Now Wren's living in my house, wearing my clothes, and I'm making a middle-of-the-night ice cream run because of pregnancy cravings like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I pull out of the driveway and turn onto the empty street, streetlights casting pools of amber across the asphalt. Without really thinking about it, I hit the call button on my steering wheel.

Banks answers on the fourth ring, his voice rough with sleep. "Someone better be dying."

"I need advice."

"At—" There's a pause, presumably as he checks the time. "—one thirty in the morning? What could possibly?—"

"Wren's craving caramel ice cream. With potato chips on top."

A beat of silence, then a low chuckle. "So it begins."

"What begins?"

"The cravings, man. Clover had me driving across town in the middle of the night for specific donuts from that place on Burnside. Only those would do. Nothing else."

I merge onto the main road, the truck's headlights cutting through the darkness. "You didn't warn me about this part."

"Would it have made a difference?" His voice holds a knowing edge that irritates me.

"No," I admit, turning into the parking lot of the twenty-four-hour market. Its fluorescent lights make the nearly empty lot look clinical and strange. "But a heads-up would've been nice."

"So she's all moved in?" Banks asks, sounding more awake now. "How's that going?"

"It's..." I search for the right word, finding none that adequately captures the strange tension of having Wren in my space. "Fine. Weird. I don't know. It's only been a day."

"And you're already making middle of the night food runs. That's promising."

"It's not like that," I insist, parking near the entrance. It’s totally like that. "I'm just trying to make this easier for her. For the baby."

"Uh-huh." His skepticism is palpable even through the phone. "Keep telling yourself that, man."

"I gotta go." I kill the engine. "Thanks for nothing."

"Hey, Kase?" His tone shifts, becoming more serious. "For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing. Trying to make this work with her."

I stare through the windshield at the empty store, at my reflection in the glass door. "Yeah, well. One day at a time."

"One day at a time," he agrees. "Good luck with the ice cream hunt."

I end the call and head into the store, nodding at the bored cashier.

The place is deserted except for a couple of night shift workers stocking shelves.

I find the ice cream section easily enough, scanning the varieties until I spot a couple of different caramels.

I don’t know which ones she wants, so I grab them all, just in case.

In the chip aisle, I study the options. Regular, not ridged. I grab a family-size bag of plain potato chips, then on impulse, I add a bag of pretzels and one of those chocolate-covered ones too. Might as well cover all the bases.

The cashier doesn't even blink at my haul, just scans everything, yawns, and bags it up while I tap my card to pay. Ten minutes later, I'm heading back home.

Home. Where Wren is waiting.

In my t-shirt.

What’s she got on under it?

The thought makes my pants tighter as my dick starts to get hard, and I adjust the rearview mirror like that's going to help me stop picturing her sprawled across my couch, my shirt riding up just enough to?—

Fuck.

I grip the steering wheel harder, willing my mind and body to get it together. This is exactly why this arrangement is a terrible idea. But it's only for a little while, I remind myself. A practical solution to her housing crisis. A way to be involved in the pregnancy.

Nothing more.

I ignore how irritated the thought she’ll be leaving soon makes me.

The house is quiet when I get home, the kitchen light still on, but there’s no sign of Wren.

I figured she’d pounce the second I stepped through the door like the feral raccoon she was acting like before I left.

I set the bags on the counter and pull out the ice cream, letting it soften while I crush some chips in a bowl.

"Pink?" I call softly, heading toward the living room. "I’ve got your gross ice cream ready."

I find her curled up on the couch, passed out.

One arm is tucked under her head, the other wrapped around her middle.

My t-shirt has ridden up just enough to show off the very top of her thigh and answer my earlier question.

She’s got on a pair of underwear that look like tiny shorts and fuck me. They cling to everything.

Her face is relaxed in sleep, free from the guarded expression she usually wears.

My throat goes dry. I stand there like an idiot, just staring, while the blood in my body rushes south. I should wake her up. Or look away. Or do anything but stand here getting hard while looking at my pregnant wife passed out on my couch.

Pregnant. Wife.

Those two words tangle together in my brain, unlocking something primitive and possessive I didn't know lived inside me.

I force myself to tear my eyes off her, rubbing the back of my neck. The ice cream's melting, I remind myself. That's a problem I can actually solve.

Back in the kitchen, I put her weird concoction together anyway—caramel ice cream in a bowl, crushed potato chips sprinkled on top—then cover it and stick it in the freezer. She can have it tomorrow. I clean up the mess from the bags, wiping down the counter where a drop of melted ice cream landed.

When I return to the living room, she hasn't moved. She's still curled up like a cat, pink hair spilling over the throw pillow.

I should wake her up. Tell her that her ice cream’s ready. But I can't bring myself to disturb her when she looks so damn peaceful. So instead, I carefully slide one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and lift her.

She barely weighs anything, which catches me off guard. Her body fits against mine perfectly, her head falling naturally into the curve of my shoulder. She makes a small noise in her sleep and burrows closer, her breath warm against my neck.

And yep. There goes my dick again.

Goddamnit.

It’s starting to become a habit to ignore it, and instead I focus on the warm weight of her in my arms as I carry her down the hall. I nudge her bedroom door open with my foot, careful not to bang her head against the frame.

Her bed looks barely touched except for the tangled sheets she left when she got up.

I lay her down as gently as I can, then stand there like an idiot, not sure if I should cover her up or just leave.

Against those white sheets, she looks smaller somehow.

Softer. Nothing like the sharp-tongued pain in my ass who's been driving me crazy for years.

And I want to crawl right in there with her and wrap my body around hers.

Her eyes flutter open before I can decide to do it. "Kasen?" My name in that sleepy voice does all sorts of things to me that I’m gonna have to work out with my right hand when I get back to my room.

"You passed out on the couch," I tell her, keeping my voice low. "I was just getting you to bed."

"Ice cream?" she asks, sounding like a hopeful kid.

"In the freezer."

She nods, already drifting off again. "'Kay. Thanks."

"Sleep, Pink." I pull the blanket up over her, my fingers brushing her shoulder. I let them linger there a second too long, wanting to kiss her. Wanting to run them over her skin and remind myself how soft it was since I didn’t get to memorize her the first time.

First time like it’s going to happen again.

More like only time.

As I tuck the comforter around her, something glints in the dim light from the hallway. A thin silver chain has slipped from under my t-shirt she's wearing. And hanging from it—unmistakable even in the half-light—is a wedding band.

Her wedding band.

From when she married me.

I freeze, my hand suspended in mid-air. She's kept it. Not just kept it—she's wearing it around her neck, close to her heart. The sight of it knocks the wind out of me.

My fingers find their way to my pocket, closing around the warm metal I've been carrying around for weeks. My own matching ring that I can't seem to part with either, that I touch throughout the day without even realizing I'm doing it.

What the hell does this mean? That she's as confused by all this as I am? That maybe some part of her doesn't want to let go of what happened between us any more than I do?

I carefully tuck the chain back into her shirt, my calloused fingers gentle against her skin. She doesn't stir, just sighs in her sleep, completely unaware of the earthquake happening inside me.

She probably doesn't hear me. Her breathing's already evened out, lips parted slightly. I stand there watching her longer than I should, feeling something fierce and possessive tear its way through my chest.

Mine, I think. My wife. The mother of my child.

The possessiveness of that thought should scare me, but it doesn't. It settles into my bones like it’s always been there.

Like she was always meant to be at the foundation of me.

I force myself to back out of the room before I do something stupid like climb into bed with her. The door closes with a soft click that sounds too final in the quiet hallway.

Back in my room, I pull the ring from my pocket and stare at it under the dim light from my bedside lamp. The matching twin to the one she keeps hidden against her skin. What the hell is happening between us?

What does she want?

I toss the ring onto my nightstand instead of putting it back in my pocket like I normally would.

Sleep doesn't come easy. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—pink hair against white sheets.

The vulnerable curve of her neck when she tilted her head back while dancing with me in Vegas.

The way her lips parted when she whispered my name.

And that goddamn ring on the chain around her neck, marking her as mine.

I roll onto my stomach, pushing my face into the pillow like I can smother these thoughts. Six months. We agreed on six months of this torture, and we're not even through day one.