Page 22 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

The maternity store is a sea of pastels and pregnant mannequins without heads. They just cut off at the neck and it’s creepy as fuck. I feel like a bull in a China shop with my dark jeans and tattoos, especially when a sales associate eyes my ink with all kinds of judgment.

"Can I help you find something?" she asks, directing the question to Wren while casting sidelong glances at me like I might pocket a onesie when she's not looking.

"No, thanks," Wren says, already scanning the racks with that laser focus I've seen her use to dismantle my arguments at industry panels.

"Let me know if you need anything." The woman smiles too brightly. "We have a husband waiting area with comfortable chairs, if that would be more suitable."

I narrow my eyes. "I'm good right here with my wife, thanks."

The word "wife" slips out before I can catch it. Wren's head whips around, her eyes wide, but the salesperson just nods and retreats.

"Wife?" Wren hisses once we're alone.

"It shut her up, didn't it?" I shrug, pretending it meant nothing when we both know it meant something. "Besides, it’s true. You are my wife.” I eye her, daring her to say shit, but she doesn’t. And yeah, she’s still got that chain tucked into the neckline of my shirt she’s wearing.

The one with my ring hanging on it she doesn’t know I know about.

“Would you rather I told her how complicated shit is? "

She rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of amusement there. "Fair point. But don’t do it again.”

"No promises, Pink."

She turns back to the clothes, pulling out a black dress that looks like every other black dress to me.

"What about this one?" she asks, holding it up.

"Looks like something you'd wear to a funeral."

"It's professional."

"It's boring." I scan the racks, spotting something with color. "What about this?"

I hold up a blue dress that would hug those curves that have been driving me insane for weeks.

"It’ll show off too much cleavage.”

"There’s no such thing," I say before I can stop myself.

She rolls her eyes again, but her lips tilt up on one side. "You would think that. These things are ridiculous.”

She looks down as she gestures to her tits and fuck my life.

“I need things for work, and contrary to the rumors, I’ve never slept with anyone in the business. Except…”

Me.

"Fine." I put the dress back, but I’m coming back for it when she’s not paying attention. I need to see her in it. "But at least get something that isn't black or gray. You're having a baby, not summoning the dead."

That gets a laugh out of her,. "I didn't know you were a fashion expert."

"I'm not. But I know what looks good on you."

The words hang between us, too honest maybe, but I’m done fucking around. I want her to know I want her. Wren turns away, busying herself with another rack, but not before I catch the deepening blush on her cheeks.

We spend the next hour loading up a cart. Wren sticks to the practical stuff. Pants with stretchy waistbands. Tops with room for her belly. Black. Gray. Sensible.

Boring as hell.

I wouldn’t hate it if she put all this shit back and just wore my shirts for the next five months, but I know she won’t.

When she's busy arguing with that snobby saleswoman about whether maternity clothes need to look like shapeless sacks or whatever they’re talking about, I grab that blue dress and toss it in the cart.

Add a blue sweater that’ll make the gray in her eyes stand out.

She’ll be pissed I didn’t listen, but I don’t really give a shit.

In the back of the store, we find ourselves in the baby section. It’s still early, but we’re gonna need all this shit at some point.

There are racks of tiny clothes and shoes. Onesies with ridiculous sayings that make Wren roll her eyes and me secretly smile.

"We should probably wait on this stuff," she says, but her fingers trail over a tiny flannel shirt that's clearly meant to look like mine. She thinks I don't notice, but I notice everything about her.

"Probably," I agree, but I'm already picking up a pair of miniature boots that match the ones I'm wearing. "But this is pretty damn cute."

She looks at the boots in my hand, then up at my face, something soft in her expression. "Yeah, it is."

We end up buying the boots and the flannel, along with a stuffed beer mug that makes us both laugh.

Who the fuck made this for babies? It’s inappropriate as hell, but whatever.

It's the first thing we've chosen together for our son, and it feels significant, like we're taking a step we can't take back. I don't want to take it back.

I hope she doesn’t either.

At the checkout, I pull out my credit card before Wren can reach for her wallet.

"I can pay for my own clothes," she protests.

"I know you can." I hand the card to the cashier. "But I want to."

She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it, studying me. "Why?"

Because seeing you in clothes I bought for you does something to me on a primal level.

Because you’re my goddamn wife and I want to take care of you and our son.

Because it makes me feel good to do things for you.

"Because it's the right thing to do," I say instead.

She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it slide.

And look at that.

I think that counts as progress.

Back at the house, I dump the shopping bags on her bed. She can deal with her new clothes. I've got dinner to handle.

We've fallen into an unexpected routine these past weeks. I cook dinner, she tries to help me clean up and does a shitty job, but I never tell her. We watch movies on the couch with that careful space between us that feels like miles.

Tonight, it's burgers from the grill, her newest craving, except she likes them with sweet and sour sauce instead of something normal like mayo or ketchup.

I flip the patties, listening to her moving around the kitchen through the open patio door.

She's humming something under her breath, probably not even aware she's doing it.

It feels domestic in the very best way.

"Five minutes," I call, closing the grill lid.

"Buns are ready," she calls back. "And I made that sauce you like."

I pause, struck by how easily we've slipped into this. How natural it feels to be making dinner together, planning for our son, building a life neither of us expected.

And when this is over, I know I don’t want to go back to how it was before.

I don’t want her to leave.

When I bring the burgers in, she's setting the table, wearing my flannel again and a pair of the new stretchy pants. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and she's stolen my socks. Again.

"You know, you could just ask if you want to borrow my clothes," I say, setting the plate of burgers on the table.

She grins, unrepentant. "Where's the fun in that? Besides, your stuff is more comfortable than mine."

"And here I thought you were just trying to drive me crazy."

The words slip out before I can stop them, loaded with more meaning than I intended. Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, there's a flash of something that makes my pulse spike.

"Is it working?" she asks, her voice lower than before.

Heat flares in my gut and my dick perks right the hell up. "What do you think?"

The air between us crackles with the tension that’s been brewing between us for months. Every second of these last four weeks feels like an eternity of wanting but not touching her. Four fucking weeks of this dance we’ve been doing around each other.

Four weeks of catching her eyes on my tattoos when she thinks I won't notice.

Four weeks of cold showers and jacking off with her name on my tongue as I come.

Four weeks of sleepless nights with only a wall between us.

Four weeks of dying to feel her skin under mine every second of every day.

Four weeks of pretending what we have is enough when we both know it was never going to be.

She looks away first, and I take the opportunity to adjust my dick. "The food's getting cold."

We eat in relative silence, but there's nothing silent about the way her eyes keep dropping to my mouth every time I take a bite. Nothing quiet about how my body reacts when she licks sauce from her thumb, her tongue darting out in a way that makes my jeans uncomfortably tight.

"You've got some..." I gesture to the corner of her mouth.

She swipes at it with her thumb, completely missing. "Did I get it?"

"No. Here." I reach across the table, brushing my thumb along the corner of her lips. The contact is like striking a match. Her pupils dilate, her breath catches, and something inside me snaps.

"Fuck this," I growl, standing so fast my chair crashes to the floor behind me.

"Kasen, what?—"

"A month, Pink. It’s been a fucking month of watching you walk around in my clothes and pretending I don't want to bend you over every goddamn surface in this house."

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't back down. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

I'm in front of her in two strides, gripping her under her thighs and dropping her onto the table. Her plate clatters to the floor, but neither of us give a fuck. "This.”