Kasen: You’ve got yourself a deal.
Kasen: When do you want to move in?
I look around at my half-packed (okay, barely packed) apartment, at the life I've built that's now in boxes. Maybe this isn't giving up control. Maybe it's just adapting to circumstances.
Me: This weekend?
Kasen: That works.
Kasen: And Wren?
Me: Yeah?
Kasen: This might not be as terrible as you think.
I can almost hear the dry humor in his text, can almost see that little half-smile he gets when he's being unexpectedly charming. And that's the problem, isn't it? I'm starting to know his expressions, his tones, his moods. I'm starting to see Kasen James as a person, not just an asshole who makes me want to punch him.
Me: Right.
I set my phone down and lean back against the couch, one hand resting on my still-flat stomach. In the span of eight weeks, I've gone from single to pregnant, accidentally married, and about to move in with a guy I can’t stand.
Couldn’t stand?
Whatever.
This is not the life I planned. Not even close.
But as I look at the ultrasound picture on my coffee table—our tiny bean with its fluttering heart—I can't bring myself to regret any of it.
Well, maybe the part where I agreed to move in with Kasen. I might live to regret that.
Or not.
Guess we’ll find out.
My house looks like I'm trying to impress the fucking Queen of England, not a pink-haired pain in my ass with an attitude problem who's carrying my baby.
"You vacuumed the ceiling vents?" Banks stares at me like I've lost my mind, which maybe I have. "Who does that?"
"Shut up." I toss the microfiber cloth I've been using to wipe down the kitchen counters for the third time into the sink. Every surface shines like it's been polished within an inch of its life. Even the copper brewing equipment I keep on display in the kitchen sparkles under the pendant lights. "She's going to be looking for reasons why this was a mistake. I'm not giving her ammunition."
Reed leans against the refrigerator, arms crossed over his chest, barely suppressing a smirk. "Just so we have the whole picture, you slept with your arch nemesis in Vegas, accidentally married her, got her pregnant, and now she's moving in. Did I miss anything?"
"Yeah, the part where you shut the fuck up and help me move this couch two inches to the left." I glare at him. Ever since he found out about Wren and me at the ultrasound appointment, he's been relentless with the teasing.
I can't even blame him. If the situations were reversed, I'd be doing the same thing.
Banks adjusts his position on said couch, which he's been sprawled across for the last hour, offering unhelpfulcommentary on my cleaning frenzy. "I still can't believe you kept this from us for weeks. Your own sister doesn't even know yet."
The guilt that's been festering in my chest throbs to life to remind me that it’s still there. "I'll tell Clover after Wren's settled. One shitstorm at a time."
"She's going to kick your ass," Banks says, obviously happy it.
"Again, not helping." I check my watch. Wren's due here in twenty minutes. My pulse picks up. "Are those sheets I bought for the guest room out of the dryer yet?"
Reed pushes off the fridge. "I'll check. Though I'm still not clear on why you needed fifteen-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets for your 'temporary roommate.'" He makes air quotes around the words, his expression saying that he’s not buying my bullshit.
"They're not—it's not like that," I snap, even though the heat creeping up my neck probably gives me away. It’s absolutely like that. "She's pregnant. She needs to be comfortable."