Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“I thank you for your professional dedication, but do you have to call it a task?” Her nose wrinkled.
“Sorry. I’ll call it target shooting—that’s more like a hobby, right? Or a sport? An enjoyable leisure activity?” She stuck her tongue out at me, and I had to laugh. “You know, if anybody had told me a year ago I’d be married to Bianca DeRossi and trying to have a baby, I’d have asked him what he was smoking. But here we are.”
“Here we are.”
“And you know what else?” I checked the waffle iron to make sure it was hot. “Since we’re friends now, I’m going to tell you a secret.”
“Oooh!” Her eyes lit up. “Yes, tell me a secret.”
“I thought I’d hate being married, but I kind of like it. It makes me want to do . . .” I pumped a fist in the air. “Drastic and manly things.”
She burst out laughing. “Drastic and manly things? Like what?”
“Well, now that you laughed at me, I’m not going to tell you,” I said haughtily, pouring some batter on the iron.
“No, come on. Tell me. I really want to hear this.”
I shut the lid and faced her. “Okay. So ever since we said I do, sometimes when I look at you, I get this caveman instinct to throw you over my shoulder and growl at any asshole who tries to get close. I know it sounds possessive and sexist and horrible, because you are not my property, but you are my wife.” I shrugged. “And you can call me a pig, but I can’t help it if being a husband brings out that side of me.”
She grinned mischievously. “If I told you I kind of like it, are you going to beat your chest and make ape noises?”
“I might.” I pretended to scratch my armpit like a monkey.
She shook her head like I was a hopeless case. “So, hitting the target . . . This is one of your drastic and manly things?”
“Yes.” I couldn’t help grabbing her waist, setting my hips against hers. “Which means my ego is involved now, and when that happens—look out.”
“Then this is one time when I actually hope to make your ego even bigger.” Then she looked at the ceiling. “God help me.”
On Tuesday after work, I met up with Beckett at the pub for a couple beers. We texted Cole and Griffin to join us, but they were both busy—Cole had to take Mariah somewhere, and Griffin was making dinner for Blair.
“That’s a new one,” Beckett said as we waited for the bartender to pour. “I didn’t even know Griff could cook.”
“I think Blair might have taught him some things.” I shook my head. “But I agree, he’s definitely more domesticated than ever before.”
“What about you?” he asked as two tall glasses of Bulldog Pale Ale were set in front of us. “How’s married life?”
“It’s good, actually.”
“Yeah?” Beckett cocked a brow at me.
“Yeah.” I shrugged and took a drink. “Turns out, I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would.”
He laughed. “Maybe because it’s only been four days?”
“Maybe.” I lifted my glass. “But it’s probably because she gave up the no-sex rule.”
“Wait a minute. There was a no-sex rule? How the hell were you guys going to have a baby without having sex?”
“Don’t ask.” I took a drink. “She wanted to make it all complicated and do an insemination at a fertility clinic, but I convinced her it would be much more convenient, less expensive, and more likely to work if we just went about it the old-fashioned way.”
Beckett laughed and shook his head. “Genius.”
“Right?”
“And you’re going to split up after the baby is born?”
“Yes.”
“That might be tough. Don’t you think?”
“I think we’ll be able to stay friends,” I said, stretching my torso. I had a stitch in my side or something, or maybe I’d pulled a muscle at the gym this morning. “We’re really getting along now.”
“I meant on the kid.”
“Oh.” I glanced at Beckett. His mother had abandoned his family when he was really little—he’d been raised by his father and older sisters. He’d never talked about his mom growing up, and outwardly he’d been so damn successful—straight A’s, Varsity athlete, Ivy League scholarship, MBA from Yale, high-stakes Wall Street career, which he’d willingly given up to come back and run his family’s cattle ranch—that it was easy to forget he’d endured such a hardship. “I’m going to raise the baby with her,” I assured him. “He or she will definitely have two involved parents.”
“That’s good.” He took another drink of his beer.
“How’s your dad?” I asked. Mr. Weaver had been showing signs of dementia for the last couple years, and each time Beckett talked about him, the stories got worse.
“Don’t ask,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry, man. Is it that bad?”
“It’s pretty bad.” Beckett drank again. “And over the winter I was around more to keep an eye on him, but pretty soon the days will get longer, and I’ll be out of the house from sunup until sundown. He’ll need constant supervision, whether he likes it or not—and he will not.”