Page 3 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

The flight back to Portland is excruciating.

My hangover has evolved from "just let me die" to "functional zombie" territory, but the persistent throbbing behind my eyes makes it impossible to get anything done. Instead, I pop a Dramamine and spend the flight with my sunglasses and headphones on doing my best not to interact with anybody.

I stare out the window at the clouds, trying and failing not to think about Kasen.

We managed to avoid each other for the rest of the convention, though I caught glimpses of him.

He’s tall, and it makes him easy to spot even in a crowded room.

He had that stupid beanie back on his head and his signature flannel stretched across his muscles.

Every time our eyes met, a shock of something uncomfortable passed through me, and we both looked away.

Good to know he couldn’t help looking at me too, though.

I spin the wedding band on my finger. I still don’t understand why I haven’t taken it off. I should take it off. Now. Immediately. This stupid ring represents the biggest mistake of my life. But for some reason, my fingers won't cooperate.

I’ve tried to come up with a reason why, but I’ve got nothing. I guess I like how it feels there even if I can’t stand the man who put it on my finger.

For fuck's sake. This is ridiculous. I'll deal with it when I'm back in Portland, where I can lock away this gold band and the entire Vegas disaster along with it.

Until then, I’m in the business of doing anything and everything that feels good and comfortable. So the ring stays.

Just until I get home.

"More water, ma'am?" The flight attendant's question startles me.

"Um, yes. Please." My voice is wrecked. I didn’t notice it this morning, what with all the life-changing discoveries and brutal hangover, and now I’m wondering if it’s because I was up all night screaming.

In the best and also horrifyingly worst way.

When she moves on, I slouch in my seat and try to forget everything that happened over the last forty-eight hours. I must doze off, because the next thing I know, the captain’s announcing our descent.

I press my forehead against the cool window. The sky’s gray and rainy as we come down through the clouds, and I love it. The good ol’ Pacific Northwest gloom. It feels like home.

It feels like what happened in Sin City was just some sort of fever dream and I’m waking up back in reality.

Twenty minutes after landing, I'm standing at baggage claim watching the same three suitcases circle the carousel. Not one of them’s mine.

This is what I get for being an over-packer and having to check a bag.

My phone vibrates in my hand just as I’m taking it off airplane mode.

Kieran: Where are you?

Kieran: The MacIntyre meeting’s in 45.

Kieran: Do I need to file a missing person’s report?

Kieran: Don’t make me call you

Shit. The MacIntyre meeting. I completely spaced on it. They're a small but growing brewery looking for distribution—exactly the kind of client Cascade needs. Exactly the kind of brewery Kasen would try to convince to bypass distributors altogether and sell direct-to-bar like Timber does.

Me: I’m in baggage claim hell.

Me: Stall.

I tap my foot against the tile. "This is ridiculous," I mutter, earning a sympathetic smile from the businessman standing next to me.

By the time I reach Cascade headquarters, I've pushed thoughts of Vegas and Kasen as far back in my mind as possible. I've done what I told myself I would, and when the plane touched down on Portland soil, I took the ring off.

It didn’t go far, though, and I slipped it on the simple chain necklace that used to be my grandmother’s and tucked it into my shirt.

I did a speed change into fresh clothes in the airport bathroom.

My hair’s pulled back into a ponytail, my makeup’s as flawless as it can get, having been done in the back of an Uber (complete with covered hickey), and I’m back to feeling more like myself.

I mean, I'm still a wreck, but no one needs to know that.

My baby, the converted warehouse that houses Cascade Craft Distribution, comes into view, and every time I see it, I feel a swell of pride. I built this business from nothing, fought for every contract, every tap handle, every distribution route.

I refuse to let one stupid decision hurt my baby.

Kieran meets me at the door in a tailored navy Tom Ford suit, a coffee in each hand and a smirk on his handsome face.

"It must’ve been a good weekend because you look like hell,” he says, handing me the larger of the two cups.

"I don’t want to talk about it," I reply, taking a grateful sip.

“Exactly how you should walk away from a trip to Vegas.”

"MacIntyre?"

"Conference room. They were early, which is a good sign."

I nod, already shifting into work mode as the caffeine works its magic into my bloodstream. "Good. What's our offer?"

Kieran falls into step beside me as we cross the warehouse floor. "Thirty percent distribution with first-year incentives if they hit the targets we set. Exclusive rights to their seasonal releases."

"Make it thirty-five," I say. "I want them to feel we're invested in their growth."

Kieran gives me a searching look. "You sure? That's higher than we discussed."

"I'm sure."

What I don't say is that I need this win today—need something to go right after the clusterfuck that was Vegas. I need to prove to myself that I'm still capable and strong and not the fuckup my weekend choices might imply.

Right before we’re about to go into the conference room, Kieran stops me with a hand on my arm.

He looks down at me with a frown, his hair swept back off his face.

"I know you said you don’t want to talk about it, but what really happened in Vegas?

" he asks quietly. "And don't say 'nothing' because I can tell something's off.

" He glances up at the room full of people. “You can’t go in there being off.”

For a split second, I consider telling him everything.

Kieran is the closest thing I have to a best friend, the one person who knows all the sacrifices I've made for Cascade. He’s been by my side for all of them.

But this whole thing is just too humiliating to admit.

At least right now when I’ve got less than thirty seconds before I need to walk into that room projecting nothing but confidence.

"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas," I say with forced lightness. "Now let's go sign this brewery before someone else does."

Kieran doesn't look convinced, but he lets it drop. "Whatever you say, boss."

I paste on my I’m about to own the world smile as I push open the conference room door, extending my hand to the MacIntyre team. "Welcome to Cascade. Let's talk about getting your beer into every bar in Portland, shall we?"

For the next hour, I lose myself in what I do best—growing my empire. I push thoughts of Kasen and wedding rings and big dicks and Vegas hotel suites to the back of my mind. This—business, contracts, distribution routes—this is what I'm good at. This is what matters.

Not blue eyes or tattoos or a warm body keeping me safe while I sleep.

By the time the MacIntyre team leaves, contracts signed and handshakes exchanged, I've almost convinced myself that everything that happened this weekend was some kind of weird fever dream.

But then my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: we need to talk

And just like that, reality comes crashing back and ruins my good mood. I stare at the message while my heart gallops away. I know exactly who it's from, even without a name.

Kasen James.

My husband.