Page 1 of Midnight and Mine

Prologue

Wynter

Sweeping the paintbrush against the wall, Scott says, “This is the last time we’re buying paint. You have to pick a color.”

There are three stripes of paint: taupe, creamy ivory, and blush pink.

“Let’s use all three. Taupe on three walls, ivory trim, and blush on one wall.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Blue painters tape lines the ceilings, trim, and floor as Scott paints the three taupe walls, and I paint the blush wall. When I finish the first coat of blush, we paint on the second coat of taupe, then we break for lunch. He has paint all over his old Panthers football shirt. Damn, I love it when he wears it. It’s more than a decade old, thin, and comfy. But it’s also tight across his chest and biceps.

“How about you feed me?” I ask, wiggling my brows.

“Lunch or… Oh. I think I can do that.” It’s the beginning of my second trimester, and I’m no longer nauseated, at least for the time being.

After he feeds me, he makes us a charcuterie board of grilled chicken, grapes, hummus, and naan bread, then finishes painting. Next, we put the crib together that we bought at an antique store here in Kissing Springs. He hangs the photos I took of butterflies on the wall by the rocker while I place a few trinkets on the dresser—a swan, a frame with our initial ultrasound, and a photo of Scott and me celebrating our pregnancy in a hot air balloon.

I stand in the center of the room, overjoyed that I’m having a baby with the man I’ve loved but didn’t admit it for my whole life.

Life is perfect.

Chapter One

Scott – One Month Later

One advantage of being your own boss is staying in bed with your wife on a weekday morning. Wynter used to sleep on her stomach but now that she’s pregnant, she can’t get comfortable, so we sleep in a spoon most of the night. She likes me to put my forearm between her breasts and her baby bump. But this morning, her pajama top has inched up over the bump, leaving her smooth and stretched skin exposed. When I graze her stomach with my fingers, a soft hum vibrates from her throat. God, I love that sound. It’s like sitting on the back porch, drinking a glass of tea, and listening to the trees rustle while the sunshine peeks through branches—an almost silent symphony of sounds.

I kiss her shoulder to wake her up, then her neck, but it’s under the ear that gets her attention. She flips her head, opening her eyes lazily.

“Good morning,” I say in a raspy tone.

“Is someone feeling frisky?” she asks with a hoarse voice, giving me a saucy smile. “Because the back door is not available. Closed for business.”

“I’m just touching my gorgeous wife’s body.” Wynter raises a brow. “What?” I ask.

“Scotty Wilson, we’ve known each other our whole lives. Do you really think I don’t know what you want?”

Want?

“Babe, I don’t want you. I need you. Always have.” I trail my hand over her bump and down to her center.

Wynter and I have been friends since we were kids. We were always those two people who weren’t a couple in our friend group. Beau and Vanessa “went together” all through middle and high school. Mark and Jessica dated for five years starting in high school. And Wynter and I were best friends with benefits—sometimes. Depending on how the wind was blowing that day.

We never told each other how we truly felt back then because it’s terrifying to put yourself out there and not know if your feelings are reciprocated. But that’s all in the past. I’m holding my present, my future—my wife.

Her fingers roam down my arm until her hand is on top of mine, and we move in tandem[ES1] , pressing and circling her bundle of nerves. I whisper, “I love how your body responds to me. How can you get more beautiful each day?”

I receive a purr for an answer, which means she’s here for all of it. In the first trimester, she was nauseous, and smells that she normally loves, like vanilla, turned her stomach, but this second trimester has been a treat for both of us—having some form of sex all the time.

Her arm lifts from mine, and she hooks it around my neck, stretching and giving me as much access as she can. Sloppily, I kiss the corner of her mouth as she lets out a mewl of pleasure.

“I love you, Scotty,” she says with ragged breaths.

I chuckle because she only calls me Scotty during sex or when she’s making a point. She lost the “y” when we were in our early twenties. “I love you, babe. So damn much.”

Rolling her over with her back partially on my chest, I adjust myself to make her feel even better. As I dip two fingers into her soaked core, I can’t help but pull them out to taste. It’s sweet and savory at the same time. Then I slip my fingers between her light-pink lips, making me want to push my erection through them.

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