Carter ignores me, wanders over to the fridge, and grabs one of my beers without asking.
“Is she always this dramatic?” I ask, nodding toward the bathroom where muffled Spanish threats echo through the walls.
He takes a sip. “You should see her when she’s pregnant.”
My jaw drops. “Wait—what?!”
He grins. “Kidding. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “Are you surprised? It’s me.”
I want to tell him it’s fake, but I also want to live in our little bubble just a bit longer.
He watches me for a beat, expression softening ever so slightly. “You’re fucked, aren’t you?”
“Completely.”
The bathroom door swings open, and Catalina emerges looking slightly less murderous. Amelia trails behind her, pink-cheeked and avoiding eye contact.
Carter claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck, lover boy.”
And with that, the chaos duo vanishes back out the door as abruptly as they came.
Amelia sits back down on the couch, a full cushion away from me.
I glance over.
She glances back.
Her lips twitch. “You okay, husband?”
I groan. “Call me that again.”
“Not a chance.”
And even with the chaos, the yelling, and Carter drinking all my beer, I can’t stop the grin from tugging at my mouth.
Because, for one brief second, she called me ‘husband’ again.
And God help me, I liked it.
amelia
. . .
Ineed to work or I’m going to lose my fucking mind sitting here twiddling my thumbs in his massive farmhouse.
Sitting up slowly, I rub the bleariness from my eyes. Daylight filters through the sheer curtains in streaks of yellowish hues, and I sigh before throwing my legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I tread softly across the room.
Shuffling into the bathroom and flicking on the light, the brightness stings for a second, causing my eyes to briefly water. I splash cold water on my face and reach for the towel, but something catches my eye in the mirror.
A neon pink sticky note is pressed to the corner of the glass.
Good morning, wifey. You look beautiful.
I roll my eyes. “Ugh,” I mutter, peeling the note off and crumpling it in my hand.
Something tugs at my chest, a familiar flutter I used tocrave. I hate that it makes my lips twitch into a half smile. I hate that he knows how to get under my skin with his dumb jokes and those annoying sticky notes.
