Page 45 of The Cuddle Clause
I took another scalding sip and prayed for strength.
Chapter 12
Roman
When Maggie walkedinto the kitchen, I short-circuited. Every thought I had derailed when I looked at her. She looked ridiculous. And completely, unfairly adorable.
It should be illegal to look like that before nine in the morning.
That now-familiar ache pressed against my chest. That thing she did to me without meaning to. Like she opened the windows and let the storm in.
She didn’t notice me staring as she sipped on her coffee. Or if she did, she didn’t comment. She leaned against the counter and muttered, “What’s for breakfast?”
Her cheeks were flushed, her voice raspy with sleep. Her whole body sagged like she’d had the worst sleep of her life. I didn’t know why, but my brain caught on it. Was she okay? Did she have a nightmare? Was this about me?
I kept my voice easy. “Nothing. Remember? Today’s the pack bonding brunch.”
She let out a full-body groan. “Shit. I forgot all about that.” She brushed a hand over her hair like that would tame it. It didn’t. “Do I need to bring something? Is it like… potluck meets primal intimidation?”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “It’s mostly awkward small talk and subtle judging. And waffles.”
Maggie’s eyes widened in panic. “I have no clue what to wear. Are people dressing up? Do I need heels? Do I need to be forest chic?”
I took another sip of coffee and answered the way I always did: by defaulting to patterns. “Sun dresses. Flats. Sweaters. Some women wear jeans, but it’s usually the rebellious cousins. Don’t wear red. It makes Lucien weird.”
She stared. “Uh… What?”
“He says it disrupts the color symmetry of the brunch layout. It bothers me too, honestly.”
Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something, but she simply shook her head and marched to her room. I followed, lingering near the door while she tore through her closet like a woman preparing for war.
She held up three dresses, each more chaotic than the last. I didn’t comment as I scanned her clothing rack and pointed to a floral one shoved near the back. “That one.”
She narrowed her eyes at it. “Isn’t it too cutesy?”
“It’s perfect,” I said without thinking. “You’ll fit in with all the other women your age. But you’ll look the best.”
She stilled, like I’d said something I shouldn’t have. Too late, I realized I had. I looked down at my feet and fidgeted with my waistband. I hadn’t meant to say that part out loud, but I had meant what I’d said.
She didn’t say anything.
We parted to get ready. My routine was fixed. Structured. Cologne—three sprays, always. Button-down shirt, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbows. Collar double-checked in the mirror.
The cuffs of my sleeves never sat quite right. I adjusted them three times before they felt balanced. Not tight. Not too loose.Justright. It was a little hit of relief in the middle of a morning I couldn’t predict.
I grabbed the keys just as Maggie stepped out of her room. And—Jesus.
She looked the way every candle I’d ever lit felt: soft, warm, a little wild. The floral dress skimmed her body, and my throat went dry.
I opened the door for her without a word. She passed by, close enough that her shoulder brushed mine. Neither of us said anything about it. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it was charged like a live wire just beneath the surface.
I kept my hand in my pocket so I didn’t do something stupid like reach for hers.
As we made our way down the hallway, she flashed me that sideways smirk I was beginning to crave every moment of the day. “You clean up nice, Velasquez.”
I smirked back, grateful for the banter. “Don’t get used to it, Mags. This is strictly brunch formal.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “That a real dress code?”
