Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
“Phoebe’s in labor and asking for you, so get that sweet ass covered and let’s get going. We’ll take my truck.”
Wade was diving over the bed for his jeans and T-shirt like some thirty-years-younger parkour champion on a sugar high when I heard my sister repeat, “Sweet ass?”
Yep. She’d heard that. And there was nothing I could do about it now. “We’re on our way, okay, Morgan? See you soon.”
After I hung up, he swore and wrapped me in his arms for an apology squeeze. “I should have known you’d get a call too.”
“Bah. It’s fine.”
It was mostly fine. It was one thing to have a mad affair with your sister’s bestie and invite him and his dog to live with you. But providing middle-of-the-night proof that you were sleeping together might be a little too in-your-face for this early in the relationship.
We were in a relationship now. We were living together. Should I be freaking out about it? About how much more complicated it might get if things went south?
Wade pulled on his socks, then stepped into his boots and bent down to lace them quickly. “The good news is, Phoebe is going to make sure no one has time to butt into our private life for a while.”
I looked up at him, my smile reappearing as all my minor, insignificant problems disappeared. “Because the baby is coming. You’re about to be Great-uncle Wade.”
He reeled like I’d slapped him. “Jesus.”
“To be fair, you were already pretty great a few hours ago.”
That won me a grin. “Finish getting dressed while I go unlock the back door for Kingston. He’s watching the dogs since Chick is still out.”
Wade drove his truck, holding my hand as we crawled through the speed traps and teasing me over my choice of pajamas for a water birth. My bottom half was covered in tattooed mermaids while the rest of me was swallowed up in one of his Hudson Garage shirts.
My socks didn’t match, but we did, because his shirt was on inside out and I think I saw a love bite on his neck.
Oops.
Neither one of us looked prepared for a birthing party. We looked hungover and sexed out. Which we were. We’d gone two more rounds before falling asleep. And I’d had three more mind-blowing orgasms because he’d decided to dive under the covers in between sessions to remind me how talented his tongue was.
With my wild curls up in a still-not-frizzy sloppy bun, wearing his shirt and my lips swollen from his kisses, no one would have any doubt what we’d been up to tonight. Not that it mattered. We were an official couple now.
I hadn’t been sure I’d ever go there again. But Chick had said I needed to tell him what I wanted, and that was what came out. I wanted him in my life in every way possible.
No second thoughts?
No. But I did feel like the cart might have gotten out a little bit ahead of the horse. He’d agreed to our coupledom remaining in the “temporary, check back later” category. And even though I’d told him I liked where we were, he hadn’t said the same.
So, something had changed dramatically but, like he said, nothing had really changed at all.
I was confusing myself.
Was this another shit sandwich in the making?
“We’re here.”
The porch lights were on and cars filled the driveway, including my sister’s. I headed up the three small steps to the porch, unable to keep from glancing at the house next door. The one that used to be mine.
Then the front door opened and Morgan was there, with circles under her eyes, a paisley bandana covering her curls and a handful of towels in her hands.
She stepped to the side. “Right this way, sweet ass.”
Her voice was low, but I heard it and grinned. “Thank you very much, hot boobs.”
She snorted as we walked through the foyer. It was like walking back in time. Not much had changed—well, other than the fact that all the furniture was shoved aside to make room for the large inflatable birthing pool now taking center stage in the living room. It was surrounded by throw pillows, two of which were currently occupied, and facing a sixty-inch flat-screen television.
Morgan glanced at us over her shoulder as gunshots rang out. “Bernie said everyone should take some Tylenol because Phoebe can’t decide what relaxes her more—Disney movies, Taylor songs or this. She’s been rotating between the three for weeks, but this has been winning since the contractions started in earnest. I blame you, Wade.”
I recognized the show. The large vertical disc of what looked like water but was really a wormhole to other planets kind of gave it away. “Stargate?”
“SG1. I bought her the complete box set eight years ago,” Wade informed us. “I told you we used to watch it together when she was little. She had a crush on the geeky archaeologist. She always liked those academics.”