As I tuck the comforter around her, something glints in the dim light from the hallway. A thin silver chain has slipped from under my t-shirt she's wearing. And hanging from it—unmistakable even in the half-light—is a wedding band.
Her wedding band.
From when she marriedme.
I freeze, my hand suspended in mid-air. She's kept it. Not just kept it—she's wearing it around her neck, close to her heart. The sight of it knocks the wind out of me.
My fingers find their way to my pocket, closing around the warm metal I've been carrying around for weeks. My own matching ring that I can't seem to part with either, that I touch throughout the day without even realizing I'm doing it.
What the hell does this mean? That she's as confused by all this as I am? That maybe some part of her doesn't want to let go of what happened between us any more than I do?
I carefully tuck the chain back into her shirt, my calloused fingers gentle against her skin. She doesn't stir, just sighs in her sleep, completely unaware of the earthquake happening inside me.
She probably doesn't hear me. Her breathing's already evened out, lips parted slightly. I stand there watching her longer than I should, feeling something fierce and possessive tear its way through my chest.
Mine,I think. My wife. The mother of my child.
The possessiveness of that thought should scare me, but it doesn't. It settles into my bones like it’s always been there.
Like she was always meant to be at the foundation of me.
I force myself to back out of the room before I do something stupid like climb into bed with her. The door closes with a soft click that sounds too final in the quiet hallway.
Back in my room, I pull the ring from my pocket and stare at it under the dim light from my bedside lamp. The matching twin to the one she keeps hidden against her skin. What the hell is happening between us?
What does she want?
I toss the ring onto my nightstand instead of putting it back in my pocket like I normally would. Sleep doesn't come easy. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—pink hair against white sheets. The vulnerable curve of her neck when she tilted her head back while dancing with me in Vegas. The way her lips parted when she whispered my name.
And that goddamn ring on the chain around her neck, marking her as mine.
I roll onto my stomach, pushing my face into the pillow like I can smother these thoughts. Six months. We agreed on six months of this torture, and we're not even through day one.
I wake up to my alarm at five thirty, my hand smacking it silent before the noise can travel down the hall. I've been staring at the ceiling since four fifteen anyway, my brain refusing to shut off after what I found out last night.
After a quick shower that does nothing to clear my head but all kinds of things to empty my balls, I pull on jeans and a henley, running a hand through my damp hair. The routine of making coffee keeps me somewhat present in the moment, instead of letting my unhinged thoughts continue to get worse.
What's not routine is checking the fridge to make sure there's enough of that fancy creamer I bought because I remembered her drowning her coffee in it that time at the industry meeting in Seattle. Also not routine? Wondering if she'll want actual breakfast or if the pregnancy will have her reaching for that ice cream first thing.
I'm on my second cup, pretending to check emails but really just staring at the same message for ten minutes, when I hear her padding down the hallway. There’s a soft yawn, then she's standing in the doorway wearing my shirt with a pair of leggings now, her pink hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot that shouldn't be as sexy as it is.
"Coffee," she mumbles, like she's sighting land after weeks at sea. "Tell me that's real coffee and not some pregnancy-approved bullshit."
"One cup a day is fine, according to Reed." I gesture toward the pot without looking up. Yes, I texted my buddy to ask about that shit. "Help yourself."
She shuffles to the cabinet where I keep the mugs, stretching up on her toes to reach. My shirt rides up with the movement, showing the bottom curve of her ass, and I bite my cheek to keep from groaning. This shit cannot be good for my circulation, having all my blood in my cock whenever she walks into the room. Or I think about her.
I force my eyes back to my laptop before I can figure out whether that chain with my ring on it is still around her neck.
"You're up early," she comments, dumping enough cream in her coffee to turn it the color of sand. She stands there for a second like she's not sure what to do, then takes the seat across from me.
"Always am, but I thought you weren’t a morning person." She just shrugs as I close my laptop, knowing I haven't read a single email anyway. "How'd you sleep? After your late-night food emergency."
Her cheeks go pink. "Good. Really good, actually." She sips her coffee, eyes on me over the rim. "Did you carry me to bed last night? Or did I dream that part?"
"You were dead to the world." I try to shrug it off like it was nothing, like I haven't been thinking about how she felt in my arms since the second I put her down. "I couldn’t leave you there and let you hurt your neck or your back."
"Thanks," she says, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear with a gesture that seems almost nervous. Not a word I'd usually associate with Wren Callan. "And thanks for the ice cream run again, even though I didn’t end up eating it. That was… really great of you."
