Page 17 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

I wake up to my alarm at five thirty, my hand smacking it silent before the noise can travel down the hall. I've been staring at the ceiling since four fifteen anyway, my brain refusing to shut off after what I found out last night.

After a quick shower that does nothing to clear my head but all kinds of things to empty my balls, I pull on jeans and a henley, running a hand through my damp hair. The routine of making coffee keeps me somewhat present in the moment, instead of letting my unhinged thoughts continue to get worse.

What's not routine is checking the fridge to make sure there's enough of that fancy creamer I bought because I remembered her drowning her coffee in it that time at the industry meeting in Seattle.

Also not routine? Wondering if she'll want actual breakfast or if the pregnancy will have her reaching for that ice cream first thing.

I'm on my second cup, pretending to check emails but really just staring at the same message for ten minutes, when I hear her padding down the hallway. There’s a soft yawn, then she's standing in the doorway wearing my shirt with a pair of leggings now, her pink hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot that shouldn't be as sexy as it is.

"Coffee," she mumbles, like she's sighting land after weeks at sea. "Tell me that's real coffee and not some pregnancy-approved bullshit."

"One cup a day is fine, according to Reed." I gesture toward the pot without looking up. Yes, I texted my buddy to ask about that shit. "Help yourself."

She shuffles to the cabinet where I keep the mugs, stretching up on her toes to reach.

My shirt rides up with the movement, showing the bottom curve of her ass, and I bite my cheek to keep from groaning.

This shit cannot be good for my circulation, having all my blood in my cock whenever she walks into the room. Or I think about her.

I force my eyes back to my laptop before I can figure out whether that chain with my ring on it is still around her neck.

"You're up early," she comments, dumping enough cream in her coffee to turn it the color of sand. She stands there for a second like she's not sure what to do, then takes the seat across from me.

"Always am, but I thought you weren’t a morning person." She just shrugs as I close my laptop, knowing I haven't read a single email anyway. "How'd you sleep? After your late-night food emergency."

Her cheeks go pink. "Good. Really good, actually." She sips her coffee, eyes on me over the rim. "Did you carry me to bed last night? Or did I dream that part?"

"You were dead to the world." I try to shrug it off like it was nothing, like I haven't been thinking about how she felt in my arms since the second I put her down. "I couldn’t leave you there and let you hurt your neck or your back."

"Thanks," she says, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear with a gesture that seems almost nervous. Not a word I'd usually associate with Wren Callan. "And thanks for the ice cream run again, even though I didn’t end up eating it. That was… really great of you."

"It was nothing." I stand up, needing to move before I say something stupid. The distance helps, gives me something to focus on besides how she looks wearing my clothes in my kitchen. "You want breakfast? I can make eggs."

"You cook breakfast too?" That eyebrow of hers arches up, some of that familiar sass coming back into her voice. "Is there anything you're not good at, James?"

"I can't sing for shit," I tell her, pulling eggs and bacon from the fridge. "Banks got me banned from karaoke after I drove everyone out of the bar on his birthday."

She laughs at that—another real laugh. I think I’ll become a collector of the real ones. They’re so rare, I want to commit them all to memory. "That I'd pay good money to see."

"Never gonna happen." I crack eggs into a bowl, focusing on not dropping in pieces of shell instead of how that laugh hits me right in the gut. "How do you want your eggs?"

"Scrambled." She takes another drink, watching me over her mug. "I can help, you know. I'm not totally useless in the kitchen."

Uh, the mushrooms she massacred last night beg to differ. But I don’t call her on it.

"I've got it." I wave her off without looking back. "Sit down. Drink your one sad cup of caffeine."

"Don’t think I’ve forgotten it’s your fault I’m spending the next eight months caffeine deprived.”

I just smirk at her because I’m not sorry and she rolls her eyes.

I cook without talking, feeling her eyes on my back as I move around. It's weird how normal this feels already—her sitting there while I make food, like we've been doing this for years instead of one day.

"Oh," she says out of nowhere. "What happened to my ice cream? Did you find it?"

"It’s in the freezer. Ready to go." I flip the bacon. "I don’t know if I made it right, but I tried. Got you three kinds of chips, including those chocolate-covered ones, in case plain wasn't going to cut it by the time I got home."

Something changes in her face then, softens it. "You didn't have to do all that."

"I know I didn't have to." I set a plate in front of her, eggs and bacon arranged exactly how I like mine. "I wanted to."

Our eyes catch across the table, and for a second, everything else falls away. All the business bullshit, all the rivalry. All that’s left is just her and me and whatever this magnetic thing is between us.

My phone rings, killing whatever moment we were having. Lake's name flashes on the screen.

"Shit," I mutter, grabbing it. "I need to take this. Lake doesn't call this early unless something's on fire."

She nods, turning back to her food like she's suddenly fascinated by scrambled eggs.

"What's wrong?" I answer, moving toward the living room.

"We've got a situation." Lake sounds stressed, which is never good. He’s the chillest guy I know. "Fermenter Three sprung a leak overnight. The whole basement's flooded and the seasonal batch is totally fucked."

"Goddammit." I drag my hand through my hair. "How bad are we talking?"

"Bad enough that I'm calling you at six a.m. I need you here, boss."

I glance back at Wren, who's pretending not to listen while she pushes bacon around her plate. "I'll be there in twenty. Start cleanup and call Edwin for repairs—not that cheap asshole we tried last time."

I end the call and walk back to the kitchen, surprised by how much I don't want to leave. Timber’s been my life for years, but somehow this morning it doesn’t seem as important. "I’ve gotta go. Shit's going down at the brewery."

She looks up, fork halfway to her mouth. "Is it serious?"

"You could say that. Some of the equipment failed. Nothing we haven't handled before, but I need to be there." I hesitate, torn between my business and this strange pull I feel to stay. "You gonna be okay here? You've got my number."

"I'll be fine, Kasen." Her mouth curls up at one corner. "Go save your precious beer. I'm a grown woman who's somehow managed to make it this far on her own."

"Right." I grab my keys and wallet from the counter while toeing into my boots. "There's more coffee… which you can’t have. Sorry."

"Stop mothering me." But she doesn't sound annoyed. It almost sounds like she likes it. "I've also been feeding myself since before I met you."

I shrug my jacket on, not bothering to tell her I doubt my newfound protectiveness toward her is going to get any better. "I'll text later if I'm running late."

She tilts her head, studying me. "You don't have to check in, you know. This isn't..." She waves her hand between us. "We're not actually..."

"I know what we're not." It comes out harsher than I meant it to. "Call it roommate courtesy then."

She nods, something I can't read flashing across her face. "Fine. Go fix your crisis, Beanie Boy."

I pause at the door, looking back at her and there’s that pull between us again that makes me want to say screw the brewery and spend the day figuring out what else makes her cheeks flush like that.

"See you tonight," I say finally.

"Later."

I close the door behind me and groan because why the fuck did this have to happen today? Driving toward the brewery and whatever disaster is waiting, part of me is already counting the hours until I can come back.

Back to Wren.

I grip the steering wheel harder, finally admitting the truth I've been ignoring since Vegas. Maybe before Vegas, if I'm being honest with myself.

This "temporary arrangement" bullshit? It's going to be anything but simple. Because despite everything—our history, the boundaries we've set, my better judgment—I'm starting to think I might actually like the pink-haired menace who's turned my entire life upside down.

And that's a complication neither of us signed up for.