Page 70 of Off-Limits Daddy
TWENTY-TWO
REID
Boots thudded against the concrete floor as the guys from B shift filed in. Fresh coffee brewed somewhere behind me, strong enough to singe nose hairs. Marco and Trent were already giving me side-eye.
Griff leaned on a locker, arms crossed, one brow raised. “You got a hot date, Reid?”
I didn’t answer.
Trent whistled low. “Bet he packed a whole charcuterie board. Crackers, grapes, one of those little jams.”
Marco laughed. “Fancy cheese. The kind with a rind and a name you can’t pronounce.”
I grunted, tugged my duffel over one shoulder, but there was no hiding the twitch at the corner of my mouth. Denying it wouldn’t do me any good—not when they’d all seen the change in me these last few weeks.
Didn’t stop me from trying. “You assholes done?”
“Almost.” Griff smirked. “Just say hi to your boy for us.”
A door clanged open. Boone came in, phone in hand, his voice low and warm as he murmured to Megan on the otherend. He looked tired. Not the dragging, sleep-deprived kind—just worn in that quiet, bone-deep way that came from caring too damn much.
“She puked again,” he said once he hung up. “Can’t keep much down this week.”
Trent frowned. “That’s rough, man.”
Marco reached over, gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Anything she’s been able to eat?”
Boone nodded, but it looked more like he was trying to convince himself. “Saltines and watermelon. Doctor said it should ease up after the first trimester.”
“She’s lucky she’s got you,” Griff added. “You two’ll get through it.”
Boone didn’t speak for a beat. Then, softer: “Yeah. We will.”
My chest pulled tight. I clapped him on the back as I passed. “Go home. She needs you more than we do.”
His smile flickered, grateful.
By the time I got home, the sun was already climbing, warm light slanting through the windows. I dropped my bag by the door, stripped out of my uniform, and headed for the shower.
Ari’s voice stuck in my head—something he’d said a few days ago, half under his breath, about sunflower fields and the way golden hour light hit just right for sketching.
He probably didn’t think I was listening. Or that I’d remember.
But I did.
Of course I did.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in my kitchen, towel slung low on my hips, slicing strawberries into a container. I had a bag of kettle corn he liked, a couple of chilled sodas, two turkey sandwiches—extra mustard for him. Bottled water, sunscreen, the big soft blanket he always stole during movie nights. All of it tucked neatly into a basket I’d found in the back of my pantry.
The last touch was a shirt I knew he liked—he always gave me shit when I wore it, said it made my arms look like trouble. Which, coming from him, was basically a full confession.
I pulled it on, ran a hand through my damp hair, and glanced at the clock. Still early. Perfect.
The drive to his place was quiet. Light traffic. Windows down, music low. I caught myself glancing at the passenger seat more than once, already picturing him there—legs curled up, sketchpad balanced on his thighs, bare feet on my dash if he thought he could get away with it.
God, I loved that boy.
He was waiting on the porch when I pulled up, sunlight catching the strands of his hair and lighting him up like something out of a dream. Sketchpad in one hand, bag in the other, already smiling like he knew I’d show.
