Page 87 of Six Month Wife

"Only snuggling allowed."

“Yes, to snuggle, specifically. Very wholesome and zero scandal.”

I narrow my eyes. “Does that make me your emotional support wife, now?”

He grins. “I like the ring of it.”

I should hold the line harder. Should remember all the reasons I told myself this needed to stop.

But I'm not wary of him at this moment.

I feel safe. Wanted. And that’s somehow even more dangerous. Because he wants me there. Not out of guilt. Not to fuck.

Just… because.

And if snuggling gets me a step closer to figuring outwhatever this is, weird, real, terrifying, whatever, then fine. I’ll take it.

“For the record,” I say, leaning in, “if I wake up before you and make a move, that’s on you.”

He laughs, opening my car door like a gentleman-slash-temptation. “Noted.”

I slide in, heart hammering a little harder than it should for a night that’s allegedly PG.

Tomorrow he’ll save a life. Tonight, he asked me to be in his.

And I’m not sure what scares me more.

With one last lingering look, Parker steps back and heads toward his car. I arrived here full of angst and despair, and I’m leaving with a warmth still curling somewhere low in my stomach.

“Shit,” I say out loud as I remember I forgot to email Carla the updated stock list. And I left the spinach order open on the counter like a total amateur.

I can run by there quickly and be back for our maiden snuggle before he goes to sleep.

I pull out my phone and text Parker.

Running by Citrine first—forgot something. Be there soon. Don't get too emotionally attached to your pillow without me.

He replies instantly.

But it’s so soft.

I roll my eyes, smile, and shift into drive. Time to fix the spinach situation before I crawl into bed with a man who somehow makes spooning sound hotter than sex.

When I pull into the parking lot, I spot Bets’s car out front. Because, of course, she’s here. She’s got it in herhead now that she has to step in, no matter how much I tell her I have it.

Inside, she’s at the front with some guy in jeans and work boots. He’s a contractor, I’m guessing, holding a blueprint and talking like she owns the place.

“Adair,” she says, catching sight of me. Her voice is clipped, but not unfriendly. “Didn’t expect you at this hour.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, stepping inside, “this place is technically still mine, last I checked. What’s going on?”

She gestures to the man beside her. “Just getting quotes. The front needs an update. Something cleaner. Sleeker. You know I’ve been saying that for a while, so I wanted to surprise you.”

I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Didn’t realize we were fast-tracking that conversation.”

Her smile tightens. “I’m not making decisions without you. I’m being proactive. We can talk next steps once we have some numbers.”

I glance at the blueprint. There’s already a color palette. A sketch of a new sign.