Page 18 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

Pregnancy hormones are a bitch, but they've got nothing on the realization I might actually like Kasen James.

I slather cream cheese on my bagel, standing in Cascade's small kitchen, trying to pretend this morning is just like any other.

Except it's not, because last night I woke up at one in the morning with a craving so intense I practically tore Kasen's kitchen apart, and then he—my mortal enemy—drove to the store just to get me caramel ice cream and potato chips.

That I didn’t even eat, and he didn’t get mad or even say anything about it.

And I woke up in his bed. Well, not his bed. The guest bed. That he made up for me. With actual high-thread-count sheets.

Then he made me breakfast.

Like, what is even happening right now?

And here I am, twelve hours later, still thinking about how his damp hair curled at the back of his neck after his shower and wondering how soft it is.

Oh, and then there were the inked up muscles I got an eyeful of when he walked into the kitchen in the middle of the night without a shirt on.

"Hey," Kieran waves his hand in front of my face, startling me back to reality. Shit, I think I’m drooling. I wipe my finger across my mouth and yup. "Where'd you go? I've been talking to you for like two minutes."

"Sorry." I drop the knife into the sink with a clatter. "Just... thinking about the Henderson account."

Kieran smirks, his eyes knowing. "Uh-huh. That wasn't your business face. That was something else. And considering you've been living with James for two days now..." He lets the implication hang in the air.

My cheeks burn, which is infuriating. Humiliating, too. "Do you want to keep your job? Because speculating about my personal life is a great way to end up unemployed."

"Yeah, right," he scoffs, reaching around me to grab his mug. "You'd be lost without me and we both know it."

Unfortunately, he’s right. Kieran's been with me since the beginning, when Cascade was just a half-baked business plan and a stack of rejection letters from investors who didn't think a girl with maxed out credit cards and no connections in this industry could make it.

"The Miller meeting's in thirty," he reminds me, eyeing my bagel with a raised eyebrow. "That's a lot of carbs for someone who was complaining about her pants feeling tight yesterday."

"I'm pregnant, not fat," I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one else is in earshot. "And your protein shakes give you bad breath.”

“They do not.”

“Oh, yes, they do. After your workouts, the first thing you should do is brush your teeth unless your goal is to repel every woman you talk to.”

He watches me, then slumps. “Shit. You could’ve told me. I was flirting with this smokeshow at the gym today and she wouldn’t give me her number.”

“I’m telling you now.” And I’ve successfully distracted him from my little Kasen daydream. Win-win.

“Yeah, thanks for that.” Kieran's expression shifts as he pulls his mug out from under the machine. "Tell me how you’re really doing with everything."

I take a bite of my bagel to buy time, not wanting to admit that despite morning sickness and fatigue, I feel better than I have in weeks. Turns out decent sleep in a comfortable bed without stress-dreaming about finding a new apartment does wonders for one's overall wellbeing.

"I'm fine," I say after swallowing. "Living with Kasen is surprisingly okay."

"Details," Kieran demands, leaning against the counter and crossing his muscular arms. "Has the guy shown his true colors yet?"

"No, he's—" I stop myself, not wanting to delve into how surprisingly considerate Kasen has been. How he stocked his kitchen with food I might want. How he’s just been… there for me. "He's clean. Organized, even. His house is nice."

"And?" Kieran prompts, clearly expecting more.

"And what? That's it." I take another bite, avoiding his knowing gaze. "We're coexisting. End of story."

"Sure, whatever you say." His tone makes it clear he's not buying my bullshit. "Just seems weird that you've spent two years talking about how much you can't stand the guy, and now you're getting this distant look in your eyes when you think nobody's watching."

"I do not get a 'distant look,'" I protest, complete with obnoxious air quotes. "That's ridiculous."

"Whatever you say, boss." He pushes off the counter and heads toward the door. "Ten minutes. Your office. Make sure the drool’s gone."

“Make sure you brush your teeth,” I counter, and he flips me off over his shoulder.

Alone in the kitchen, I let my hand drift to my stomach while I wipe at my face again.

Stupid Kieran, calling me out. I can’t believe it’s already been twelve weeks.

The first trimester’s almost behind me. And somehow, impossibly, I'm living with Kasen James—the same man who once publicly declared my distribution model "the death of authentic craft beer culture. "

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I already know it’s him.

Kasen: How are you feeling?

It’s the third text check-in of the day. I scroll back to see the others.

Kasen: Fermenter disaster handled. Hope you're good.

Kasen: Remember Reed said to stay hydrated. Are you drinking water?

My fingers hover over the screen, torn between irritation at being mothered and a strange warmth that he worries about me.

Me: I thought you didn’t micromanage.

I send it, then immediately type another.

Me: But yes, I'm hydrated. And fine. Important meeting in 20.

His response is immediate, and I bite my lip to keep from grinning.

Kasen: Knock 'em dead, Pink.

Yeah, it’s a losing battle because I find myself smiling at the screen like an idiot before I catch myself.

This is exactly what I can't afford—getting soft, getting comfortable with this arrangement.

With him. It's only until I find somewhere else. Then we’ll figure out how to co-parent and move on with our lives.

Our separate lives.

Tucking my phone away, I head back to my office as my good mood plummets at the thought of moving on, but I do my best to shake it off.

I love this space, the glass-walled corner office overlooking the warehouse floor.

It's still my favorite part of Cascade—being able to see the operation I've built humming along beneath me.

Forklifts moving between rows of kegs, delivery trucks being loaded, my team working with the efficiency I've drilled into them.

It’s everything I hoped it’d be and also more than I even dreamed.

Kieran's already waiting in my office with the Miller file open on his tablet. "So Pacific Northwest Distribution," he says without preamble. "They've been buying up small craft operations all over the Northwest."

"Not just buying," I correct, settling behind my desk, thinking about the reports I’ve read and things I heard at the conference in Vegas. "Gutting. They strip away everything unique, standardize the processes, and slap the original labels on what amounts to mass-produced swill."

"Harsh but accurate." Kieran swipes through some documents. "They've acquired seven craft breweries in the last eighteen months. Last month, they approached Eastside Ales with an offer."

"Did they accept?"

"No, but rumor has it they're reconsidering after Miller sweetened the deal. And now he's coming to us." Kieran looks up, his expression serious. "What do you think he wants?"

"To destroy everything I've built," I say without hesitation. "Cascade is the link between most of the independent craft breweries in Portland. If he folds our distribution into his control, he controls who gets tap handles and shelf space almost everywhere."

"It’s a smart play," Kieran admits.

"Yes, but it doesn't mean I'm selling." I straighten a stack of papers on my desk. "Not now, not ever. I didn't build this company from nothing just to hand it over to some soulless corporate douchebag."

"Even if the number has a lot of zeros?"

"Even then." My hand moves to my stomach, then drops when I realize what I'm doing. It’s a new habit I need to break before someone notices.

But Kieran sees it. Of course he does. The man misses nothing. Mercifully, though, he says nothing. "Have you talked to your new roommate about this meeting?"

"Why would I?" I tilt my head and squint at my head of operations, wondering what he’s getting at. "We agreed to keep our business lives completely separate."

"Because Miller's probably talking to him too," Kieran points out. "Pacific Northwest hasn't been subtle about wanting to control the Portland craft scene. Timber would be a prime target."

The thought hadn't occurred to me, which is annoying. Kieran's right—of course Miller would approach Kasen too. Timber's built a loyal following, and their direct-to-bar model cuts out distributors like me. It's the exact kind of operation Miller would want.

"Kasen wouldn't sell," I say with a lot of confidence I hope I’m not wrong about. "He's too stubborn and too proud of what he's built."

Kieran gives me a strange look. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"It's not. It's an observation." I stand, straightening my blazer. "I need to prep for this meeting. Make sure the conference room is ready."

"Already done." He rises too, tablet in hand. "Should I mention that the Timber team was spotted at Hopworks yesterday? From what I hear, it looked like an informal meeting. Someone matching Miller's description was there."

My stomach drops. "Why are you just telling me this now?"

"I couldn’t confirm it until this morning." Kieran shrugs, but his eyes are sharp. "Thought you'd want to know before you sit down with Miller yourself."

"You’re right." I grab my water bottle, all this talk of Kasen reminding me of his incessant texts about staying hydrated. "Thanks."

"That's what you pay me for." He pauses at the door. "Among other things, like snapping you out of dirty daydreams and keeping you humble."

"That happened once.”

"Three times.” He smirks. “So far.” Then the asshole disappears down the hall.

Alone again, I sink back into my chair. My thoughts are going in a million different directions.

Kasen met with Miller? It could be nothing.

Or it could be everything. The idea of Kasen selling Timber makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with business rivalry and everything to do with knowing how much that brewery means to him.

Not that I care. I don't. It's just?—

My phone buzzes again. It's not Kasen this time, but a text from the reception desk.

Reception: Nolan Miller is here. 15 mins early.

Yeah, that’s an attempt at a power move. He’s trying to make me accommodate his schedule instead of the other way around and if I was feeling like a bitch today, I’d make him wait an extra ten minutes to show him his time’s no more valuable than mine.

This isn’t my first rodeo.

Lucky for him, I’m not into playing games today.

Me: Send him to the conference room. Offer coffee. I'll be there in 15.

I may not want to play games, but no way will I let him come into my territory and think he has any power or control.

It’s not happening.

I take a moment to collect myself, checking my reflection in the glass wall. My hair’s pulled back in a sleek ponytail, my makeup’s hiding my zombie eye. Nothing about me says "knocked up by my nemesis."

I look like I've got my shit together—professional, untouchable, ready to eat corporate assholes for breakfast.

Exactly how I need to be for this meeting.

Exactly the opposite of how I feel.

The conference room's flooded with natural light when I walk in. Nolan Miller's posted up by the window like he’s staring at his own kingdom instead of mine, surveying my warehouse floor. He spins around at the door click, and holy shit, that smile. It's like someone taught a snake how to grin.

"Well, if it isn’t the gorgeous Wren Callan in the flesh." He glides across the room, hand extended like we're about to be best friends. "A pleasure to finally meet in person."

He's taller than I expected, with silver at his temples and the kind of tan you can only get from expensive vacations. Or a bottle. His suit is impeccably tailored, and no doubt cost thousands.

Everything about him makes my skin crawl.

"Mr. Miller." I shake his hand, making sure my grip is just as strong as his. "Welcome to Cascade.”

"Please, call me Nolan." He gestures at the warehouse. "Impressive operation you've built here."

"Thanks." I claim the head of the table because fuck his power plays. "So Pacific Northwest's been on a shopping spree, I hear."

He chuckles like I've said something adorable. "Direct. I like that in a potential partner."

"We're not partners." The words come out sharper than a fresh IPA. "And Cascade isn't a brewery. So why exactly are you here?"

"You're the gatekeeper." Miller leans forward, his expression earnest in a way that immediately puts me on alert. "Many of the craft breweries in Portland go through you. That kind of influence is valuable."

"It is," I agree. "Which is why I'm not interested in selling."

He doesn't even flinch. Bastard. "I haven't made an offer yet."

"You don't need to."

Miller's smile stays plastered on, but something shifts in his eyes. "What if Cascade stayed exactly as is? You in charge with the same team and the same brand. Just with Pacific Northwest's resources backing you up."

I raise an eyebrow. "And you'd do that out of the goodness of your heart?"

"God, no." His laugh sounds like Chandler's fake work laugh from Friends. My hackles go all the way up. "I need access to breweries who'd rather chew glass than work with us directly. You're my in."

"Because you've got a reputation for destroying everything that makes craft beer special."

His smile never wavers. "I prefer to think of it as 'optimizing.' But perception matters, I understand that. Which is why Cascade will still look independent while we pull the strings backstage. It’s a win-win."

The door opens, and Kieran appears with a tray of coffee and snacks. I catch his subtle eyebrow raise and I roll my eyes. We don’t need words to communicate—he just checked in and I told him this guy's full of shit.

"Thank you, Kieran." I pour myself some decaf for something to do with my hands. "Mr. Miller, Kieran Edison. He’s my head of operations."

They exchange polite chit-chat that neither of them means or cares about while I death-grip my mug and try to figure out my next move. The second Kieran leaves, Miller pounces.

"Let’s cut the bullshit, Wren. I'm prepared to offer twenty million for Cascade."