The twenty-four-hour market is a fluorescent-lit oasis in the dark. The cashier barely looks up when I walk in. At this point he’s probably used to seeing me on bizarre food missions.
I grab a basket and head straight for the pickle aisle, then the ice cream section, moving with the efficiency of someone who's done this too many times in recent weeks. The chocolate syrup takes a minute to find, and I grab the cheese puffs last.
Standing in the checkout line, basket filled with the strangest combination of foods imaginable, I catch my reflection in the security mirror in the corner. I'm smiling like an idiot, and I look... happy. Actually fucking happy, at two thirty in the morning, buying pickles and chocolate syrup for a woman who I used to want to launch into outer space so I wouldn’t have to deal with her.
Life's fucking hilarious.
The drive home feels quicker, anticipation building as I picture the smile that's going to light up Wren's face when I walk in with her disgusting snack. She gives them to me so often now I’ve stopped counting. I'm turning into one of those guys who gets off on making his pregnant wife happy. Banks and Reed would give me endless shit if they knew how soft I am for her.
Then again, Banks is the same way with my sister, and if he wasn’t, I’d kick his ass.
When I walk through the door, I find Wren curled up on the couch, wrapped in the throw blanket from my bed, scrolling through her phone. She looks up when she hears me, and just like I predicted, her whole face lights up.
Unfortunately, I don’t know if it’s for me or the food, but I’m choosing to believe it’s me.
"You're back!" She makes grabby hands toward the bag. "Gimme."
"Hold your horses, woman." I kick off my shoes and head to the kitchen. "Let me at least put this nasty thing together for you."
She follows me, hovering as I unpack the groceries. "Did you get the right pickles? The garlic ones, not the sweet."
"Yes, Pink, I got the right pickles." I hold up the jar. "Give me some credit. It’s not my first time."
I grab a bowl and start assembling her monstrosity—pickles sliced lengthwise, drizzled with chocolate syrup, topped with crushed cheese puffs. It looks like a really fucked up ice cream sundae.
When I hand it to her, she actually moans in anticipation, a sound that goes straight to my dick. I watch in horrified fascination as she takes the first bite.
"Oh my god," she groans, eyes closing in bliss. "This is so good."
"I'll take your word for it." I pull out the ice cream and grab a spoon. "Strawberry ice cream, as requested."
She sets down her pickle creation long enough to take the ice cream, digging in with an enthusiasm that would be cute if it wasn't for what she was eating.
"You want to try some?" She holds out a pickle dripping with chocolate.
“I’d rather lick the floor of my workshop, but thanks.”
She shrugs as she takes another bite. "Your loss."
We move back to the living room, settling on the couch. She curls against my side, alternating between bites of chocolate-covered pickles with a cheese puff crust and strawberry ice cream in a combination that makes my stomach turn just watching.
Don’t get me started on the way it smells.
"So," she says between bites, "I still can’t believe this is my life.”
"Same." I drape my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "A few months ago, I would've said you were more likely to poison my beer than sleep in my bed."
She laughs, the sound soft and warm in the quiet house. "To be fair, I considered it once. After you took the last tap slot at Sun Breaks last year."
"Yeah, well, I earned it." I tug gently on a strand of her pink hair. "And if I remember right, they signed with you two months later anyway."
"Because they realized their mistake," she says primly, scooping up more ice cream.
“You know they still stock my beer.”
“Okay, so not a mistake, but an… oversight, I guess.”
I watch her eat and fuck, I can’t get enough of her. "Can I ask you something?"
