Page 111 of Reluctantly Ever After

She takes my ring from my hand after I dug it out of my jeans pocket. "Your turn." She slides it onto my finger, her touch sending electricity up my arm. "There. Proof that we're stuck with each other."

"You really know how to make a guy feel wanted.”

"You love it." She rises on her toes to kiss me. "Now let's go get waffles. Your son is hungry."

"Sure, blame it on the kid." I grab my wallet and keys.

Twenty minutes later, we're settled in a corner booth at the fancy waffle place downtown, her hand in mine on the table, our rings catching the morning light.

"You know," she says as she drowns her waffle in syrup, "my mom's going to have a field day with this."

"Let her." I lift her hand to my lips. "It’s not like she didn’t know about Vegas. Nothing she says can touch this."

"You say that now. Wait until she starts quoting Virginia Woolf at you. 'A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction...or run her own company.'"

I squeeze her hand, feeling the weight of my wedding ring pressing into my skin. "I've got more important things to focus on right now."

"Like what?"

"Like making sure my wife gets those Belgian waffles she's craving."

"And then?"

I grin, leaning closer. "And then I'm going to take you home and spend the rest of the day showing you exactly how much I appreciate you marrying me. Twice."

"I like this plan." She spears a piece of waffle dripping with syrup. "And for the record, I expect this level of service for all my cravings from now on, Mr. James."

"Already on it, Mrs. James."

As we eat breakfast together, I get lost in my thoughts.

This is how love stories should begin. Not with grand gestures or perfect moments, but with two people deciding to choose each other. Over and over. In big ways and small.

In drunken Vegas chapels and morning waffle dates. In midnight food runs and argued over baby names. In shared clothes and stolen sticky rice and the quiet space between sleeping and waking when the rest of the world falls away.

And if our story started with a mistake?

Well, I've never been happier to be wrong about anything in my life.

Three months later…

The most annoying thing about being thirty-six weeks pregnant isn’t the swollen ankles, or the constant bathroom trips, or even the backaches that keep me up at night. It's the fact that Kasen James was right about absolutely everything, and now I'll never hear the end of it.

"I told you we'd be amazing together," he murmurs against my ear, his hand resting possessively on my hip as we watch the crowd mingle in Timber's packed tasting room. "Both in business and in bed."

"Way to be subtle," I mutter, even as I lean into his touch. "Half of Portland's craft beer scene can see you."

"Let them see." His breath is warm against my neck, sending an embarrassing shiver down my spine. "I'm not the one who insisted we keep our relationship professional in public."

I roll my eyes but can't stop the corners of my mouth from twitching upward. "That was before I looked like I swallowed a beach ball and everyone could do the math."

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me in a way that makes my toes curl inside my ugly as hell flats. But swollen feet are no joke.

The joint Timber-Cascade celebration is in full swing. Portland's beer snobs are out in force, pretending they've alwayssupported us while secretly wondering how the hell Kasen James and I ended up married with a baby on the way. If they only knew about Vegas and Elvis and tequila shots...

God, all this standing is killing my feet. These might be the world's most comfortable flats, according to the sales girl, but she clearly wasn't hauling around an extra thirty pounds and a tiny human who thinks my bladder is a punching bag.

Kasen's hand splays across my stomach, his tattooed fingers making my skin tingle even through the fabric of my dress. The blue one he insisted on buying after I rejected it at that maternity store months ago. "It makes me want to rip it off you," he'd said, and I'd rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself a headache. But damn him, he was right again. Not that I'd ever tell him that. The man's ego barely fits in this brewery as it is.

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