Page 82 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

“Fuck,” I grit out. “Gonna come—can’t stay in—”

I pull out at the last second with a growl that rips from my chest, fisting the sheets beside her as I spill across her stomach in hot, pulsing waves. The instinct to knot isviolent, but I fight it. Ihaveto.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur into her skin as I collapse against her, kissing just below her jaw. “Didn’t want to risk…”

“I know,” she whispers.

I nod, then pull back slowly, just enough to meet her eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Her lashes flutter, and she smiles softly. “I’m good.”

I lean in and kiss her forehead, then her temple, and finally, the corner of her mouth.

“Could’ve stayed inside you forever,” I admit. “But I’d never make it to work on time.”

My thumb brushes her cheek, and her smile widens. I sigh, then reach for the tissues from my nightstand. I clean her up gently, then I tug the duvet back over us, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into my chest.

For now, she’s here with me; and that’s enough to make the whole damn day worth it—even if I’ll be walking into a 7 a.m. club briefing still aching for a knot I didn’t get to give.

*

After a long, hard day, I walk through the front door—

And pause.

The house smells incredible. Like garlic and rosemary and something vaguely…burnt?

“Aimee?” I call out, dropping my work bag in the hallway. “You’re not trying to burn the house down, right?”

“No promises!” her voice sings out from the kitchen.

I smile. It’s automatic now, and I don’t even try to stop it. I’ve been doing that a lot since she moved in:smiling.

I round the corner and stop short. She’s standing in front of the oven with a dish towel wrapped around her hand. There’s flour on her nose, her hair’s pulled up in a messy bun that’s leaning tragically to the left, andWes—

Well.

Wes is standing at the other end of the kitchen, a fork in one hand, and an oven mitt in the other. From the look on his face, he’s debating whether to throw them or scream into them.

“What did you do?” I ask slowly, cautiously.

“I made dinner,” Aimee says proudly.

Wes lets out a sharp, disbelieving breath. “You didnotmake dinner.Iwas making dinner. You just… vandalized it.”

She lifts her chin. “I made it better.”

“Youdyedthe pasta pink, Aimee.”

“Technically, I just added some strawberry protein shake to the water. It was unsweetened,” she adds quickly. “And high in omega-3s.Verynutritious.”

Wes looks like he’s trying to calculate the exact moment he lost control of his own life. “I left the room forthree minutes,” he says, voice rising. “I came back and it looked like Barbie exploded in the colander.”

“I improved it,” she counters, holding up a tray with what might have once been garlic bread, now topped with rainbow marshmallows and what looks suspiciously like a drizzle of balsamic glaze in the shape of hearts. “I thought it needed a little whimsy.”

“It’scarbonara,” he snaps. “And you putdessertongarlic bread.”

She shrugs, then holds the tray higher for emphasis. “For love,” she says sweetly.

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