Page 20 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

My wife won’t stop stealing my clothes.

Not that I'm complaining. There's something about seeing Wren in my clothes that does things to me. Dangerous things that make me forget all about our negotiated boundaries. Like right now, she’s shuffling into the kitchen wearing my faded Timber Brewing hoodie, the fabric stretching just enough across her growing belly to make it impossible to ignore the reality of our situation.

She’s sixteen weeks pregnant. With my kid. Living in my house.

And still trying to pretend we're nothing more than reluctant roommates.

"Morning," she mumbles, making a beeline for the coffeepot. Her hair is piled on top of her head in that messy knot she always wears when she’s at home and there’s something about her without makeup like this that just does it for me.

"Decaf's on the counter," I say, not looking up from my laptop where I've been updating my calendar with her next prenatal appointment and all the baby milestones. "I made it fresh ten minutes ago."

She grunts something that might be thanks or might be a death threat. Hard to tell with her before she’s fully awake. Three weeks of living together has taught me that mornings aren't her thing.

Three weeks that have felt simultaneously like three years and three minutes. The blue balls have been no joke.

"You're up extra early," she says after her first sip of mostly creamer, leaning against the counter and eyeing me suspiciously over the rim of her mug.

"Just adding some stuff to my calendar." I close the laptop, not wanting her to see that I've been researching cribs instead of working on the new seasonal beer label like I told Lake I would. "It’s a big day today."

The corner of her lips tilt up. "The ultrasound. That’s why I’m up at this ungodly hour, too. I couldn’t sleep anymore."

"Yeah." My stomach tightens at the reminder. "Reed said we might be able to find out the sex."

"If you want to know." She rests a hand on her belly, something she's been doing more often lately. Watching her fingers cup her belly where our baby grows makes me forget how to breathe for a second—like I'm staring at something that belongs to me in ways I never knew I wanted. "We don't have to."

"You don't want to?"

She shrugs, but I've gotten better at reading her these past weeks. The little crease between her eyebrows means she's conflicted.

"I don't know. It's just..." She searches for words, which is unusual for someone who usually has too many of them and all of which she knows exactly how to use as a weapon. "Once we know, it makes this even more real, you know?"

I do know. That's exactly why I want to find out.

"Plus," she continues, "if I know it's a boy, my mom will start sending me feminist literature on raising sons to respect women." She rolls her eyes, but there's fondness there. "And if it's a girl, I'll get twice as much."

I can't help my laugh. "Your mom sounds intense."

"You have no idea." She smiles, a real one.

The corners of her eyes crinkle and her guard drops completely.

Her whole face softens in a way that makes her look younger, less like the ruthless businesswoman who's been terrorizing Portland's craft beer scene.

This is smile number six in my mental collection since she moved in.

"Think female Bernie Sanders with better glasses and an encyclopedic knowledge of Virginia Woolf. "

"That’s kind of awesome."

"She'd eat you alive." Wren pushes off the counter and opens the fridge, bending to scan the contents. The hoodie slides up just enough to reveal the curve where her ass meets her thigh, and if she turned around right now, I don’t think I could tear my eyes away and she’d catch me staring.

My fingers itch to trace that line, to feel if her skin is as soft as I remember from Vegas.

I clear my throat, ignoring my dick, which would love nothing more than to reintroduce itself to her. "There's yogurt on the second shelf. The kind you like with the granola packets."

She straightens, shooting me a look over her shoulder. "How do you know what kind I like?"

Because I've been paying attention to everything about you, from the way you curl up in the corner of the couch when you work late to how you talk to yourself when you think I'm not listening.

Because I notice which foods make you light up and which ones make you gag.

Because I can't seem to stop cataloging every detail about you.

"Lucky guess," I say instead.

She doesn't look convinced but grabs the yogurt anyway. "You heading to the brewery today?"

"After the appointment." I get up to refill my coffee. Decaf, too, in solidarity. "Lake can handle things for a few hours."

"You don't have to come with me," she says automatically, the same thing she says every time I offer to do anything for her. "I can drive myself."

"I know I don't have to." I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo. It’s sweet and I love it, even though I'll never admit it. "I want to."

Her eyes meet mine, something flickering in their gray depths that makes my heart beat faster. For a second, I think she might actually let her guard down.

But then she blinks, and the moment's gone. "Fine. But I'm driving."

"Whatever you say, Pink."

Her eyes narrow at the nickname, but I catch the twitch of her lips. She doesn't hate it as much as she pretends to. And she’s stopped calling me out on using it.

"I'm going to shower," she announces, grabbing her coffee. "Be ready by ten thirty."

I watch her go, my eyes locked on the way her ass looks in those leggings until she disappears down the hallway.

Even pregnant with my kid, or maybe because of it, I want her so bad my hands shake.

It takes everything I have not to follow her.

Once I hear the bathroom door close, I drop my head into my hands with a groan.

Living with her is fucking killing me.

I thought it would get easier with time.

That the constant awareness of her would fade into indifference.

Instead, it's gotten worse. Every day I notice something new—the little humming sound she makes when she reads, the way she tucks her feet under her on the couch, how she talks to her belly when she thinks I'm not around.

And every night I lie in bed knowing she's just down the hall, remembering what it felt like to wake up with her naked in my arms in Vegas.

It's torture. Straight up torture.

I pull out my phone, checking the reminders I've set.

Her prenatal vitamins. Her favorite protein bars for when she forgets to eat lunch.

The shopping list for things she'll need soon. Stuff I never would’ve looked twice at before.

Maternity clothes, body pillows, the fancy lotion Reed recommended for preventing stretch marks.

This is my life now. Planning for a baby with a woman I'm technically married to but can't touch. A woman who’s determined to keep me at arm’s length despite the way I catch her looking at me sometimes.

A woman I want a lot more from than just co-parenting.

That's a problem for another day. Right now, I need to focus on the appointment. On seeing our baby. On not making a complete ass of myself in front of Reed again, since he’s already laughing at me on a daily basis because of my constant texts.

By the time Wren steps out of her room, dressed in jeans that look uncomfortably tight around her growing belly and one of my flannels, I've got the truck warmed up and my game face on.

"Ready?" she asks, grabbing her purse.

Not even a little bit.

Reed's office is exactly as sterile and medical as the last time we were here, but this time there's something different. There are more people in the waiting room, for one. And most of them are staring at us.

Or more specifically, at Wren's pink hair and nose ring and my tattoos.

"Everyone's staring," Wren mutters as we sign in at the reception desk.

"Let them," I say, fighting the urge to put my arm around her to shield her from all these assholes and the judgmental looks. Instead, I settle for glaring back at an older couple who are whispering behind their hands. They immediately find the carpet fascinating.

"Relax, Beanie Boy," Wren says, nudging me with her elbow as we take seats in the corner. "We're not exactly a normal-looking couple."

The word 'couple' from her lips fucks me up and I do everything I can to hide my reaction from her. Hearing her acknowledge us as something together, even accidentally, feels like winning something.

Even though I doubt she meant it the way I want her to.

"Wren Callan?" a nurse calls, and we both stand.

The exam room is the same one from before. Same posters of female anatomy that I pointedly avoid looking at. Same stirrups that I'd rather not think about Reed using on my?—

No. Not going there.

Wren changes into a gown, and I try not to notice how much more her stomach has grown since the last appointment. She catches me looking anyway.

"What?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious. "Is it that obvious?"

"What?"

"The belly." She smooths a hand over it. "I had to use a hair tie to keep my jeans closed this morning."

"It's..." Beautiful. Perfect. Proof that part of me is growing inside you. "It's not that noticeable."

She snorts. "Liar. Kieran asked if I was sure it wasn't twins yesterday."

My teeth grind at the mention of her very jacked, very straight assistant. Before I can respond, Reed knocks and walks in, grinning at us.

"Hey," he greets us, glancing between us as the shit-eating grin on his face only grows. I flip him off where Wren can’t see and he laughs.

"How's my favorite patient today? And you too, I guess, Kase."

"Hilarious," I mutter.

"I got three texts from him this morning alone," Reed tells Wren, completely ignoring me. "Did you know he's tracking your vitamin intake on a spreadsheet?"

Wren's eyebrows shoot up as she turns to me. "You're what now?"

"It's not a spreadsheet," I protest, feeling heat crawl up my neck. "It's just... a note app on my phone."