Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
I supposed Kip might’ve been thinking something similar. He’d experienced an anomaly that most people thought existed on the news, only happened to other people.
It was darkly ironic that we were two profoundly fucked-up people who’d lost things you weren’t supposed to lose. And now we were in a fake marriage that had somehow turned very fucking real.
When we got home, Kip said he had to go to work to “take care of some shit.” His voice had been faraway, and I wondered if he was going to retreat again.
That thought filled me with fear.
Only a day with him masquerading as a husband and a father, and the prospect of a future without him was more than a little daunting. I was only thinking this because of the trauma of these past few days, nothing else.
“I’ll call Calliope, get her to come sit with you,” Kip said, grabbing his phone off the counter.
“You will do no such thing,” I snapped. “I’m more than capable of being alone in my own house and not sticking my fingers into any sockets.”
He regarded me seriously, like he had to be convinced that I, an adult woman, was going to be fine home alone.
“Go!” I shouted at him.
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. He thankfully put his phone in his pocket.
He rounded the counter, stopping only when he got right in front of me. Then he put his hand on my stomach to lean in and gently kiss my head. I was so shocked I just sat there, letting it happen.
“I’ll come by with lunch,” he said against my forehead.
Then he left.
Without me arguing with him.
We just had dinner.
I’d requested Dorito casserole. Kip made it gladly, drinking a beer as he did so. I sat outside, pretending to read my book but really sneaking a whole bunch of peeks at him in the kitchen.
He looked really hot in the kitchen.
And he was acting all… nice. Still with the devotion. He’d come with lunch—sandwiches from the place in town that made their own sourdough, plus cookies from Nora’s bakery. And cake. Because he obviously knew I consumed sugar like it was going extinct.
There was the forehead kiss, the belly touch, the lunch, the cookies, the cake. And now him making my new favorite comfort meal.
The other shoe had yet to drop.
I was dubious. I was bracing, waiting. But somehow, I still hoped. That this was it. That I wasn’t alone.
A dangerous thing to hope.
We’d finished dinner—I had thirds—and Kip had done the dishes, fighting against me when I tried to help. I was sitting at the counter with a cup of tea and cookies. He was putting away the last of the dishes.
He paused at the fridge, where I’d put up the ultrasound picture from today.
“Her hands were up at her ears,” he said, looking at the fridge like he was going to drill a hole in it. “Ultrasounds use sound waves.” He gaped up at me. “She didn’t like it.” His brows knitted together. “How many more ultrasounds do you need?”
I bristled, though his distress at our daughter’s discomfort was kind of cute. “However many the doctor thinks I need.”
He nodded, still frowning. “Yes, of course.”
That was enough for me. I sipped the last of my tea, getting up to rinse it and put it in the dishwasher. I tried my best not to get too close to Kip. “This day has been… intense,” I said, stepping out of the kitchen as soon as the dishwasher closed. “I need to go to bed.”
He blinked. “Yes, of course,” he repeated like a broken record. He blinked, as if he were rebooting or something, then looked at me a little more focused than that dreamy look on his face. “You want me to bring your cake in for you?” He nodded to the cake stand, where a fudgy chocolate cake sat gloriously.
I pursed my lips, my first instinct being to refuse him on principle. As a thirtysomething-year-old woman, one who was going to be a mother in a few months, I should be able to take care of myself, cut my own damn cake.
But I didn’t want to take care of myself. Yes, being an independent woman was a great goal, a great identity to stick it to the world, the patriarchy, and the man who beat me and tried to grind me into mush.
But it was also nice to let someone take care of you. I’d always wanted that. To trust someone enough to take care of me.
Granted, Kip hadn’t given me a whole bunch of reasons to trust him these past few months, but… he was the father of my child and my husband. And he made a really fucking good alfredo.
“Yes, that sounds… nice,” I replied.
His posture relaxed somewhat, as if he’d been tensed, waiting for a fight. A good thing. Keep him on his toes, I decided.