“Are you kidding? This is my job.” He strode into the kitchen, heading straight for the bags. “Actually, I was slacking. I should’ve had this shit already in the house.”
I sat up in bed and leaned against the headboard enough so I could see straight to where he stood. He unloaded the bags onto the counter, and my brows rose with each item he pulled out. Jesus, when he said he brought reinforcements, he wasn’t lying. Chocolate bars and truffles, potato chips, crackers, ice cream, popcorn, wine, pineapple juice… It looked like Main Street Market threw up in our kitchen.
“I wasn’t sure if you usually craved salty or sweet, so I got both. I grabbed some chamomile tea, too, because I read that helps with cramps. I didn’t read anything about pineapple juice helping, but it’s your favorite, so it can’t hurt, right? Same with the wine.” He shot me a grin over his shoulder and went back to unloading. “And I didn’t know if you wanted to just Netflix and actually chill or if you were bored with that, so I asked Everly for a couple of her favorite books. They’re all romance, but if you’re feeling stabby instead, I can swing by Brady’s and pick up some true crime. The guy loves that shit. You can read them and I’ll leave you alone, or I’ll read them to you—whatever sounds good to you, kitten, okay?”
Thank God he wasn’t actually waiting for an answer, because I could only stare at him, slack-jawed, as he continued pulling item after item out of the bags.
“The tricky part were the supplies. Holy fuck, I felt like I needed a goddamn PhD in tampons just to pick the right ones. I didn’t know if you were feeling sporty today, and they didn’t have anything for lounging—I honestly didn’t even know they based them on your activity level—so I just got a few different variety packs in case you have a favorite. They also had this weird measuring cup-looking thing that said it was good for heavy flows, so I grabbed one of those, too.”
The items were never-ending as he pulled one after another out of the bags—four different packs of tampons, two packages of pads, a box of pantyliners, and a menstrual cup—and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I crawled out of bed and shuffled my way toward him, needing to be close to him. Needing to squeeze him and tell him how much I appreciated this. No one—and I mean no one…not even my mom—had ever done anything like this for me. When I’d first gotten my period, she’d tossed me a package of pads, and I was on my own from then on.
In my years in the medical field—and, hell, just as a woman—I’d come to learn how uncomfortable people were with women’s bodies. Most couldn’t discuss any part of a woman’s cycle without getting squeamish, and here Ford was, buying out the whole damn aisle just because. Because I’d told him I was on my period so he wouldn’t come home expecting sex.
I’d spent my life learning over and over again that I was the only one I could count on. I was an island—by choice or by design, it didn’t really matter. But in my short time with Ford, it had started to feel a little like maybe I wasn’t so alone. Like maybe I could count on someone else once in a while.
“I didn’t have a heating pad here, so I picked up one of those, too,” he said. “And I read that these new patches can help with cramps, and they got really good reviews. I’m not sure if it’ll work with your PCOS, but I figured it was worth a try. This article I was reading said—”
I wrapped my arms around him from behind, pressed my face into his back, and breathed him in. This man…God. If you’d have told me four months ago that my rival would be buying me tampons and tucking me into bed with a chocolate bar when I had my period, I’d have said you were out of your mind. And yet, here we were.
“Why are you out of bed?” he asked, turning in my arms until he could wrap his around me. “I was going to bring in whatever you wanted.”
“Thank you,” I murmured into his chest.
“For what?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused, and that just made me adore him more.
“This.” I tipped my head back to look up at him. I was a mess. I wasn’t wearing makeup, my hair was half out of the ponytail I’d put it in that morning, and I was wearing one of his sweatshirts I’d stolen and a pair of pajama pants that had seen better days. But with the way he was looking down at me, brushing the loose hair from my face and holding me like I was…special, it was obvious he didn’t care how messy—how imperfect—I was. “All of it. Just…thank you.”
He pressed his lips to my forehead and squeezed me tight, then he pulled away and smacked my ass. “All right. Back to bed, kitten. I’ll be there in five for a cuddle party. And I’ll bring the goods.”
* * *
It’d only beena few hours, but I could say with absolute certainty that Netflix and actual chill—aka cuddle parties—with Ford was pretty much the best thing ever. We’d worked our way through season one ofThe Good Place, and I wasn’t sure there was anything better than Ford chuckling into my neck, his chest rumbling against my back as he laughed.
How the hell had we gotten here? What had begun as a farce was starting to feel all too real. And I…didn’t hate it.
He sat against the headboard, his legs spread for me to settle between them. And all the while, he alternated between running his fingers through my hair and lightly tracing them over any exposed skin until I was basically a puddle in his lap.
“My mom used to do this when I was little,” he said against the top of my head as he ran gentle fingers down my arm.
I shifted, tipping my head back to look up at him. He rarely talked about his mom—or his dad, actually—so he had my full attention. “She did?”
“Yep. Whenever we were sick.” He laughed under his breath. “Sometimes I’d fake it just to have her tickle me. I’m pretty sure she was onto me, but she did it anyway.”
I grinned, thinking of a sneaky little Ford trying to get more of his mom’s attention. “That’s sweet. I think I probably would’ve faked it, too. In fact, I might pretend to have my period again just for this.”
“Maybe we can work out a swap. BJ for a tickle?”
Giving Ford a blow job wasn’t exactly a hardship—the times I’d done it, I’d barely gotten started before he’d pulled me off him and fucked me into oblivion—so this was a no-brainer. “Deal.”
We were quiet for long moments before I murmured, “You miss her?”
“Yeah,” he answered without hesitation.
“Can I ask what’s going on with your dad?” Any previous mentions of him had been short and unemotional—as if Ford were commenting on the weather—which only increased my curiosity.
“Not much to tell. He’s like he’s always been—absent. I don’t know if you remember, but my mom handled everything when we were young. Ran the resort, took care of us kids. Took care ofhimwhen he was too drunk to take care of himself. Tried to cover for him with us, too. At least now we don’t have to deal with that because we don’t expect his presence anymore. Don’t count on him to be around. Less disappointment for everyone that way.”
“You don’t ever see him?”
