Page 36 of Whiskey & Wreckage

I press my forehead to hers. “You’re it for me. And if I have to tell you every damn day for the rest of our lives so you believe it? Fine. I will.”

She lets out a shaky laugh. “You better.”

I smile. “And for the record? I wasabsolutelygoing to marry you before your uterus beat me to the punch.”

She laughs—actually laughs—and then sobs right into my chest.

I hold her like the world might end if I let go.

And when I rest my hand on her stomach, she places hers over mine.

A beat.

Then, quietly she says, “We’re really doing this?”

“Yeah, baby,” I whisper. “We are.”

Chapter Thirteen

POPPY

It’s beenthree months since I moved in with Thomas.

Three months of peace and pancakes and Bear hair infiltrating every crevice of my wardrobe like a clingy ex. Three months of learning to live with a man who alphabetizes his guns but loses his socks every damn day. Three months of falling asleep with his hand curled around my waist—and lower, palm resting protectively where my belly’s just starting to change.

Three months of waking up to kisses on my shoulder and a muttered, “How’s our girl this morning?” like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And still—still—her name lights up my phone every few days.

Lily.

No long essays. No guilt-laced paragraphs. Just three words, again and again.

Can we talk?

The first few times, I wanted to scream. Now, I just roll my eyes and swipe them away. Usually. Unless I’m already hormonal and crying over an oatmeal commercial, in which case I might glare at the phone like it personally betrayed me.

Thomas never says anything about it. But he notices. He always does. The man could read my body language in the dark during a power outage while blindfolded.

This morning, he finally speaks.

We’re in the kitchen. I’m perched on the counter, wearing one of his old college T-shirts that now fits…differently. My jeans are unbuttoned because I refuse to wear anything with a waistband before 10 a.m., and I’m eating Honey Nut Cheerios out of a mug with a flamingo on it because I’m classy like that.

Thomas is shirtless—because of course he is—and barefoot, leaning against the island with his sleep-mussed hair and a mug that saysWorld’s Okayest Detective.He looks equal parts deadly and annoyingly cozy, and the second I glance at him, his eyes dip to my stomach.

Just a flicker.

But I feel it.

And when he crosses the room, he doesn’t kiss my lips first—he presses one soft kiss just below my belly button, like a secret. His hand rests there a second longer than necessary.

“You feel okay?” he murmurs.

I nod. “Just moody and starving. The usual.”

His smile twitches. “So... basically still you.”

I stab my spoon at him.

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