He watches me, then slumps. “Shit. You could’ve told me. I was flirting with this smokeshow at the gym today and she wouldn’t give me her number.”
“I’m telling you now.” And I’ve successfully distracted him from my little Kasen daydream. Win-win.
“Yeah, thanks for that.” Kieran's expression shifts as he pulls his mug out from under the machine. "Tell me how you’re really doing with everything."
I take a bite of my bagel to buy time, not wanting to admit that despite morning sickness and fatigue, I feel better than I have in weeks. Turns out decent sleep in a comfortable bed without stress-dreaming about finding a new apartment does wonders for one's overall wellbeing.
"I'm fine," I say after swallowing. "Living with Kasen is surprisingly okay."
"Details," Kieran demands, leaning against the counter and crossing his muscular arms. "Has the guy shown his true colors yet?"
"No, he's—" I stop myself, not wanting to delve into how surprisingly considerate Kasen has been. How he stocked his kitchen with food I might want. How he’s just been… there for me. "He's clean. Organized, even. His house is nice."
"And?" Kieran prompts, clearly expecting more.
"And what? That's it." I take another bite, avoiding his knowing gaze. "We're coexisting. End of story."
"Sure, whatever you say." His tone makes it clear he's not buying my bullshit. "Just seems weird that you've spent two years talking about how much you can't stand the guy, and now you're getting this distant look in your eyes when you think nobody's watching."
"I do not get a 'distant look,'" I protest, complete with obnoxious air quotes. "That's ridiculous."
"Whatever you say, boss." He pushes off the counter and heads toward the door. "Ten minutes. Your office. Make sure the drool’s gone."
“Make sure you brush your teeth,” I counter, and he flips me off over his shoulder.
Alone in the kitchen, I let my hand drift to my stomach while I wipe at my face again. Stupid Kieran, calling me out. I can’t believe it’s already been twelve weeks. The first trimester’s almost behind me. And somehow, impossibly, I'm living with Kasen James—the same man who once publicly declared my distribution model "the death of authentic craft beer culture."
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I already know it’s him.
Kasen: How are you feeling?
It’s the third text check-in of the day. I scroll back to see the others.
Kasen: Fermenter disaster handled. Hope you're good.
Kasen: Remember Reed said to stay hydrated. Are you drinking water?
My fingers hover over the screen, torn between irritation at being mothered and a strange warmth that he worries about me.
Me: I thought you didn’t micromanage.
I send it, then immediately type another.
Me: But yes, I'm hydrated. And fine. Important meeting in 20.
His response is immediate, and I bite my lip to keep from grinning.
Kasen: Knock 'em dead, Pink.
Yeah, it’s a losing battle because I find myself smiling at the screen like an idiot before I catch myself. This is exactlywhat I can't afford—getting soft, getting comfortable with this arrangement. With him. It's only until I find somewhere else. Then we’ll figure out how to co-parent and move on with our lives.
Ourseparatelives.
Tucking my phone away, I head back to my office as my good mood plummets at the thought of moving on, but I do my best to shake it off.
I love this space, the glass-walled corner office overlooking the warehouse floor. It's still my favorite part of Cascade—being able to see the operation I've built humming along beneath me. Forklifts moving between rows of kegs, delivery trucks being loaded, my team working with the efficiency I've drilled into them.
It’s everything I hoped it’d be and also more than I even dreamed.
