Page 16 of The Fated Mate Bandit

He tugs on my hand. “And they have some nice things here. Do you like this shirt?” He points to a pale yellow button-up that looks incredibly soft. It’s my favorite color. But it’s at the front, and everyone knows the clothing on display is more expensive.

“The clearance stuff is fine,” I tell him.

He releases my hand and slides his arm across my back, pulling me in close to press a kiss in my cheek. I squeeze my eyes shut and savor the softness of his lips and the warmth of his body.

“Get what you like,” he whispers, his breath hot on my ear. “This is Target, not Bloomingdale’s. I can afford it.”

“You make that much in the military, huh?” I tease. My alpha dad was in the Army, once upon a time. I wasn’t under the impression that it was a lucrative profession.

“I’m a data analyst for the Air Force. I don’t make a ton of money, but I make enough to be comfortable.” He leans in close, “And support a family.” His tone is soft and earnest. Fate help me, but I let myself imagine what that would be like. Silver coming home from work every day to find me in the kitchen, cooking dinner for our family. In my fantasy, he takes time to hug each of the pups as if they were his own, and then comes over to kiss me.

The idea of a life like that makes me ache deep in my chest. I think that’s what happiness would look like for me, if I were ever allowed such a thing. I reach for the pale yellow shirt. The fabric is just as soft as I thought it would be. I could wear this in Silver’s kitchen during the next month, couldn’t I? Cook for him the way I would if we were mates. I know all his omega mom’s recipes.

I put the yellow shirt in the cart.

“There you go. What else do you like?” he asks.

I run my fingers over a folded pair of denim shorts. Silver used to like my legs. These would show them off. “Would it be okay if I got some shorts?”

He grabs for them and puts them in the cart.

“Do you think the blue denim or the black denim look better?” I ask.

He lets out a breathy laugh and grabs for the black denim, too.

“I don’t need both,” I say.

“Two pairs of shorts isn’t going to break the bank. How about some sleep shorts? You used to like those,” he says, grabbing for some pajama shorts.

“Oh. I thought I was going to wear your clothes to bed.” I try to hide the disappointment in my voice, but I’m not very successful.

He leans over and kisses my cheek. “You can wear my clothing whenever you want, baby.”

The endearment makes me weak in the knees. Baby. That’s what he called me in high school, and I thought I’d die with happiness every time. It made me feel so special.

He tosses the pajama shorts into the cart. “It will be nice to have something to lounge around the house in, though.”

He’s incredibly generous, and despite how selfish it may be, I love it. Just like every other part of him, his generosity makes me feel safe.

“Could I get another shirt?” I ask, eyeing a white T-shirt that looks wide enough to accommodate my baby bump all the way to the end of my pregnancy.

“Of course,” he says. “You’ll need at least five or six, don’t you think? This one looks comfortable.” He picks up a sleeveless workout shirt that’s the same pale yellow as the first one he spotted.

“I like that one a lot. Thank you, Silver.”

He kisses my cheek again. “You’re very welcome. How about you get four more shirts and some pants, then we’ll go get you some shoes. I forgot we were planning to look at those first thing.”

That’s more paternity clothing than I have at home. Daryl thought it was a waste to buy clothes I would only wear for a few months. Maybe it is. But I get to be happy this month, so I carefully select four more shirts and a pair of jeans with an elastic waist big enough to grow with me.

“Are you sure this isn’t too much?” I ask. The cart is halfway full of my clothing.

“Not at all. Let’s get you some shoes.”

He pushes the cart one-handed to the shoe section where he lets me pick out a pair of sandals, some athletic shoes, and a nice pair of loafers. I can’t believe he’s going to spend so much on me. After we’re done picking out shoes, he heads for the personal hygiene section.

“What kind of soap and deodorant do you like?” he asks, leading me down an aisle of bottled shower gels.

“Oh, um, I can just use yours. I mean your soap, that is.”

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