Page 38 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

There's a gold wedding band burning a hole in my pocket, and I can't stop thinking about putting it on.

The weight of it has become familiar these past months, constantly reminding me of what I'm waiting for. But after last night, after hearing Wren finally say she loves me too, it feels heavier somehow. More significant. Like the difference between a dream and reality.

I told her I’d put it on weeks ago, but I never did. I wasn’t sure she was ready for people to know, and I didn’t want to answer questions I didn’t have the answers to.

Lake watches me from across the brewing floor, his eyebrows raising as I check my phone for the fifth time in twenty minutes.

"Dude. She texted you like two seconds ago saying she's fine," he says, measuring out hops for our experimental batch. "The woman survived running Cascade for four years without you hovering. Pretty sure she can handle herself."

"I'm not hovering," I snap, shoving my phone back in my pocket where my fingers brush against the ring again. "Just checking the time."

"Sure." Lake's smirk is annoying as hell. "And I'm just playing with these Citra hops because I have nothing better to do.”

I flip him off, but there's no heat behind it.

He's not wrong. We're prepping the specialty batch I designed for the baby months ahead of schedule.

The label's already finalized with that constellation of freckles from Wren's skin, the pine trees silhouetted against the dawn sky, the simple text at the top. Crafted for the newest James.

"You ever think about how weird this all is?" Lake asks, dumping the hops into the scale. "You and Pink going from mortal enemies to playing house in what, six months?"

"We're not 'playing house,'" I growl, checking the malt composition for the third time. This beer has to be perfect. It's for my son, after all. "And she's not 'Pink' to you."

Lake raises both hands in surrender, but he's still grinning. "Sorry. Didn't realize the nickname was exclusive."

"It is." My tone leaves no room for argument, which only makes Lake's grin widen.

"Remember when you came back from that craft beer panel last year? The one where she called your special edition IPA 'aggressively mediocre' in front of everyone?" He chuckles, clearly enjoying my humiliation. "You were so pissed you redesigned the whole recipe because of her."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Hey, that beer won gold at regionals."

"After you spent three weeks perfecting it because of her comment," Lake points out. "Face it, man. She's been pushing your buttons for years, and you've been loving every minute of it."

“I didn’t love every minute.”

“Fine, but you have to admit that she makes you better.”

"The new recipe was better," I mutter, refusing to acknowledge the larger point.

"It was. Because she challenged you." Lake measures out another addition with practiced precision. "Same way you challenge her. You two are like... beer and pretzels. Shouldn't work, but somehow perfect together."

"That's the worst analogy I've ever heard."

"Didn't say I was a poet." Lake shrugs. "Just calling it like I see it."

Before I can respond, the front door chimes. Banks and Reed walk in, with Noble strapped to Banks's chest in one of those baby carrier things I'll be wearing in a few months. I can’t wait.

"Hey," Banks calls out, his voice carrying across the brewery. "Got time for a break?"

Reed follows behind, carrying a paper bag that probably contains lunch. The guy's always thinking about practical details, like making sure we actually eat with our drinking.

"Thought we'd stop by for lunch," Banks says, already unstrapping Noble. "Someone's been demanding his Uncle Kase all morning."

I set down my clipboard and cross the floor to them, trying not to look too eager as I reach for my nephew. Noble's gotten so big since the last time I saw him, which was only a week ago. His chubby hands immediately grab at the tattoos that crawl up my neck.

"Hey, bud," I say, taking him from Banks. Something in my chest loosens the way it always does when I hold him. "You giving your dad hell?"

"All day, every day," Banks grins, looking more tired and happy than I’ve ever seen him. "Sleep is for the weak."

"Where's Wren?" Reed asks.

"At Cascade," I tell him, bouncing Noble when he starts to fuss. "She’s got a busy afternoon with back-to-back meetings."

"She just hit twenty-four weeks, the viability milestone," Reed says, like it’s normal to talk about this shit over lunch. "Baby's lungs are developing surfactant now."

"Yeah, she said something about him being able to survive now if he came early," I say, shifting Noble to my other hip. "It’s a relief, but it still feels surreal.”

“Before you know it he'll be here," Reed says, reaching to pour himself a beer from the pitcher of Backbone IPA that Lake just dropped off at the booth we claimed as ours the first day I opened the doors.

"Not fast enough," I mutter, thinking of Miller's latest moves against local breweries. Three more have folded to his pressure in the past week alone, despite our coalition's efforts.

I hate that Wren’s stressing, and that stress is so hard on the baby.

"How's the baby name situation?" Banks asks, watching me with Noble. "Still arguing over it?"

I snort. "What do you think?"

The truth is Wren and I can't agree on a single name. Everything I suggest, she hates. Everything she suggests sounds like the name of someone who'd get beaten up on a playground. We're at a standstill.

"You could always name him Banks," Banks suggests with a straight face.

"Yeah, that’s not happening," I reply, making Noble bounce on my hip. His giggles are the best sound in the world, and for a second, I imagine my son making that same noise. My son. The reality of that still blows my mind.

Lake finishes with the measurements and joins us, wiping his hands on a towel. "I've got the first stage prepped. We can continue later."

"Perfect timing," Reed says, pouring Lake a glass and passing it over. "To fatherhood, and not fucking it up too badly.”

We clink bottles as Lake adds a heartfelt, “fuck no,” and I take a swig while still balancing Noble on my hip. The kid's fascinated by my tattoos, his tiny fingers tracing the lines of ink down my arm.

"So," Banks says, his tone shifting to something more serious. "How are you really doing with all this? The baby. Miller. Everything."

I shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. "Fine."

Reed snorts. "That's convincing."

"What do you want me to say?" I take another sip of my beer.

"That I'm terrified of screwing this up?

That every time I think about holding my kid, I remember how my dad checked out when we needed him most?

That I'm paranoid Miller's going to find some way to destroy everything Wren and I have built before our son even gets here? "

The room goes quiet. Noble grabs a fistful of my shirt and tugs, kicking me in the ribs.

"Well," Banks says after a moment. "At least you're not bottling anything up."

I huff out a laugh, and my shoulders relax a little. "Sorry. It's just... a lot."

"It is," Reed agrees. "But you're not your dad, Kase."

"And you're not doing this alone," Banks adds, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You've got Wren. You've got us."

"Besides," Reed says, all business suddenly, "the fact that you're worried about it already puts you miles ahead of where your father was. Shitty parents don't generally stress about being shitty parents."

"The doctor makes a good point," Lake chimes in, spinning his beer glass between his palms.

I look down at Noble, who's now drooling contentedly on my shirt as his eyes slow blink. "I just want to get it right, you know? I want to be the father he deserves."

"You will be," Banks says with a confidence I wish I felt. "Look at you with Noble. You’re a natural, dude.”

"Plus, Wren will kick your ass if you screw up," Reed adds with a smirk. "She'll keep you in line."

That pulls a reluctant laugh from me. "True."

Noble starts fussing, his little face scrunching up. Yeah, a meltdown is imminent. I shift him to my other hip, swaying the way I've seen Clover do. It works, and the pride that surges through me is ridiculous.

"See?" Banks gestures toward us. "Natural."

The front door chimes again, and I turn, expecting to see Wren. Instead, a woman with a gray pixie cut and glasses stands in the entrance, her gaze sweeping the brewery.

I know exactly who she is before she speaks.

"I'm looking for Kasen James," she announces, sounding like she's about to grade my entire existence. I bet grad students shit themselves when they have to answer a question in her class. "I understand he's responsible for my daughter's current situation."

Fuck.

Margot Callan. Wren's mom. The professor who basically programmed Wren to think all men are out to ruin her career and make her a second-class citizen or something. The woman who apparently has a quote from some dead writer at the ready so she can prove her point.

And she's looking at me like I'm everything wrong with the patriarchy, condensed into human form.

No big deal.

"That would be me," I say, shifting Noble higher on my hip. The kid chooses that moment to let out an ear-piercing scream before smacking my face with a slobbery hand, which doesn't exactly help me look put together.

Margot's eyes narrow behind her glasses, taking in the tattoos, the baby on my hip, the beer in my hand. I can practically see her cataloging each detail, filing them away as evidence against me.

"I see." Her tone could ice over a volcano. "Is there somewhere we can speak privately, Mr. James? About my daughter and my grandchild?"

Banks, Reed, and Lake exchange looks that all communicate the same thing: You're on your own, buddy.

"My office," I say, nodding toward the back. "Lake, can you take Noble?"