Page 31 of Uxpectedly Ever After

“I’m supposed to work tonight,” she mutters. “I need to call Navy.”

“Already done.” I pull out my phone, waving it slightly. “I texted her while the water was boiling. She says don’t worry about the bar—just get better.”

Clover glares at me with a mix of annoyance and reluctant gratitude. “So you just took over my life, huh?”

“Yep. But I promise I’ll give it back as soon as you’re on your feet.” Maybe. I can’t resist a small grin. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same for me.”

She tries to muster some sass. “Would I?” But there’s no real bite behind the words.

"Yeah, you would." I brush her hair back from her face, letting my fingers linger longer than strictly necessary. "You act all tough, but you've got the biggest heart of anyone I know, Freckles."

She doesn’t snap at the nickname, and that says everything about how lousy she feels.

We sit in silence for a while, the only sounds are her occasional sips of tea and my phone buzzing with texts from Kasen asking about the Blazers game tomorrow night. I ignore it. Nothing else matters right now except the woman in front of me.

It doesn’t take long for the drowsiness to win out—her eyelids droop, and she shifts, pressing her head against my chest like she isn’t even aware she’s doing it. “Just until I feel better,” she whispers, voice barely audible. Her body settles into mine, fitting so well it’s like we're two pieces of a puzzle snapping into place.

I slide an arm around her, stroking her hair. “Take all the time you need.”

She’s out in minutes. I watch her breathe, every rise and fall of her shoulders, the way her lashes rest on her cheeks. The constellation of freckles dusting her nose are mesmerizing, and I realize I’m grinning like an idiot.

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” I murmur into her hair, letting the words free because she can’t hear them. But I swear there’s a tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, like some part of her does.

Time slips by, my arm dead asleep beneath her. My back starts to twinge, but I don’t move. I’d sit here forever if she needed me to. Eventually, though, practical concerns—like my spine—force me to shift. Carefully, I slide an arm under her knees and another around her back, lifting her against my chest. She mumbles something and nestles closer, her fingers twisting in my shirt while I carry her into her room.

She clutches my sleeve even when I lay her down, and for a second, I consider leaving. I know she’s spent the last month enforcing walls between us. But she’s not letting go, and the truth is, I don’t want to leave. So I sit on the edge of her bed, running my fingertips through her hair and across her forehead, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the shape of her lips, the freckles I’d never be allowed to get close enough to study if she were awake.

“When did you start feeling like home?” I murmur, the question hanging between us in the quiet. I’m not sure when it happened—when she went from being my best friend’s sister to the center of my goddamn world. When her independence became the thing I respect the most, when her walls became something I want to climb and then guard instead of break down.

All I know is that somewhere between that first morning making coffee in her kitchen and tonight, watching her sleep, denial transformed into something that feels an awful lot like forever.

I force myself upright before I do something I can’t take back, like crawl in beside her and show her exactly how I feel. Standing in the doorway, I drink in the sight of her one more time—the woman I want, in the space we share but don’t really share, with the life she’s built that I’d give anything to be part of.

Casual, my ass. Nothing about my feelings for Clover James is casual. And I’ll prove it to her… one way or another.

Fuck.

I’m so fucking fucked.

I blink. Stare down at it harder. Blink again. Swear I’ll never complain about anything ever again if thisone thinggoes how I need it to.

Yeah, no.

There are still two pink lines on the fuckingpregnancy testclutched in my hands.

This can't be happening.

I refuse.

Itcannot.

I set the pregnancy test on the bathroom counter with fingers that won't stop shaking and grip the edge of the sink to keep myself from just keeling over because I can’t life anymore. The white-knuckle hold I have on the porcelain is the only thing keeping me upright right now.

"Shit. Shit.Shit." I mutter to my reflection like it’s her fault instead of mine we’re in this situation.

But joke’s on me—there’s no one to blame but this idiot right here.

I'm pregnant.With Banks Priestly's baby.

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