Hitched

by Pippa Grant

  “Oh, god,” I huff. Still, it could have been so much worse. I glance over my shoulder at him. “Sorry about that. I should have warned you about the sleepwalking. I was hoping it wouldn’t be an issue.”

  “No big deal. Just worried me a little. You ever end up outside the house when you do that?”

  “A couple of times,” I confess, earning myself a disapproving rumble. “But not in a long time. Not since I put the extra locks on the door. My sleepwalking self seems to be too lazy to get through more than one or two before she gives up. And I don’t do it all the time. Only when I’m super tired or…stressed.”

  “Sorry about that,” he says softly.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s Kyle and the detective and all the rest of it. And it could’ve been worse. Once I woke up and I’d shorted out the pencil sharpener and a spare TV that I kept in my office.” I sigh. “Speaking of the rest of it, I should probably take Dean a cup of coffee.”

  “You should absolutely not take Dean a cup of coffee.”

  “It got chilly last night,” I argue. “I’m sure he’d appreciate something hot to drink.”

  “And the chance to probe you for information while you’re sleepy and your guard is down.” He pats my ass. “You’re too trusting.”

  “And you’re patting my ass.”

  “It’s a nice ass,” he says. “And it’s right there…”

  “You’re saying I should get up if I don’t want my ass patted?”

  “I’m saying you should stay right here,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist again. “And go back to sleep with me. It’s barely six AM.”

  “I usually have the goats milked by seven-thirty and out in the pasture no later than eight.” But my traitorous body is already relaxing against him.

  He just feels so good. So right.

  But he isn’t right for you, and you’re not right for him, and if you stay for snuggles you’ll definitely be giving him the wrong impression. So get up, weakling. Loser. Beta alpaca. Fork in the spoon sandwich. You’re lazier than George Cooney waiting on the couch for Cassie to hand him the popcorn bowl when it is literally five inches from his greedy little paw.

  Finally the nagging voice in my head gets to be too much and I swing my legs to the floor with a sigh. “I really should get to the barn. I forgot I have to bottle feed a few of the babies today so they’ll be ready to come with me to goat yoga in the square.”

  “Goat yoga?” Blake arches a brow and his lips curve up on one side, drawing my attention to his sexy morning stubble.

  Damn, the man looks good with a little scruff.

  And a tight white undershirt hugging his muscled biceps.

  And a sexy case of bed head.

  I drag my gaze away from him as I rake a hand through my own crazy hair, which I’m sure looks much less deliciously rumpled. “Yeah. Goat yoga. The babies climb over everyone while they’re doing the poses. Star, the new yoga teacher, says it’s a big thing these days. We had twenty-five people sign up for the demo class today. If all goes well, we’ll probably start doing it once a week through the spring and summer.”

  “You need help getting them fed and loaded?” He sits up, but keeps the covers puddled around his waist, making me think a certain something hasn’t calmed down yet. Which makes me start thinking about how perfect that certain something is, and how I’ve never come as hard or often as I did on our first wedding night, the one we both denied ever happened so we could get an annulment.

  But it did happen.

  And I’ve spent the past four years replaying highlights from that night in my head when I’m alone in the dark. Even though I know I shouldn’t.

  But nothing else gets me there. Even the few times I’ve slept with other men, sometimes I’ve found my thoughts drifting…

  Shameless hussy, the inner voice pipes up, but her voice is softer now, so quiet it would be easy to ignore.

  Which means it’s time to get away from Blake. ASAP.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it,” I say, heading for the bedroom. “I’m used to doing it all on my own.”

  “Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be easier with two,” he calls after me. “Maybe even more fun.”

  Oh, it would absolutely be more fun. But the “it” I’m thinking about has nothing to do with milking goats or feeding animals.

  If only it hadn’t been so long since I’d been with someone. If only Blake’s touch didn’t set me on fire. If only this house were five times bigger so I could put some distance between us, and wouldn’t end up bumping hips with him every day as we move about my tiny kitchen. Because even that is enough to make my knees weak and my willpower start to lose its grip on the edge of the cliff.

  “You take cream, right?” Blake is standing by the fridge when I breeze into the kitchen after getting dressed in yoga pants and a tank top and jacket combo that will take me from the cool morning into the warm spring afternoon.

  He’s wearing a pair of brown Carhartt work pants that seriously do it for me, and that same white undershirt that’s going to be starring in my fantasies later on. The nutty smell of coffee fills the air and what looks like a breakfast sandwich is wrapped in foil and sitting beside my cell phone, which is beside the French press, which is beside—

  “Aaah!”

  He glances at Dildo Shaggins and grins. “Oh. Sorry. Forgot he was there. You want me to move him?”

  “No.” I start to laugh, remembering bingo last night. “I like him. He’s…happy.”

  Blake snort-laughs. “Clearly. He must like his new home.”

  “Or he thinks he’s getting breakfast too.”

  “Never feed your dildo before midnight. It’s a rule.”

  He lifts the cream.

  I nod, and he adds a dollop to a to-go mug while I giggle at the cheesy eighties movie reference.

  “Thank you.” I tap the warm, foil-wrapped treat on the counter. “For me?”

  “Yeah, egg and cheese on a toasted bagel. That good?”

  “That’s lovely. Thank you so much.”

  “Of course,” he says, grinning. “I owe you for meatloaf night. Figured I could cook supper later too. If you don’t mind something meaty on the grill or veggie pasta. That’s about the extent of my culinary repertoire.”

  “That’s a perfect repertoire. I’ll pick up something from the butcher shop on my way home from yoga.”

  “Sweet.” He holds out the to-go mug. “I’ll be back around four or five. I’ve got to grab a few more things from my place and then do some work in the vineyard.”

  “Okay.” I take the mug, feeling strangely torn.

  “It’s just supper, Hope,” Blake says, reading me better than I’m reading myself. “Nothing to stress out about. There’s no reason we shouldn’t be good to each other, right?”

  Oh, I want to be good to him, I want it more than I’ve wanted anything in longer than I can remember, but unfortunately my libido’s idea of “good” and what’s best for Blake aren’t anywhere close to the same page.

  They’re not even in the same book.

  So I force a smile and say, “Of course not. Friends should be good to each other. And I’m glad we’re becoming real friends again. Truly. I need all the friends I can get.”

  He winks. “Think you can squeeze the word ‘friends’ in there one more time?”

  I laugh beneath my breath. “Later, friend,” I say, heading for the door.

  “I’ll be here,” he replies.

  Like I can count on him.

  I’m starting to think this is real. That I really can count on him. Maybe for more than being a fake husband.

  And isn’t that a scary thought?

  Thirteen

  Blake

  * * *

  I linger inside just long enough to finish my coffee and put our few dishes in the sink. If I were at my place, I’d put them off until I had to do them, but I don’t want to leave a mess for Hope.

  Not when she keeps everything else so tidy.

/>   I want to be a help, not a hindrance.

  Dean is still watching us—seriously, does the dude never sleep?

  Not that I mind right now, because it gives me an excuse to go find Hope before I leave.

  There are a half dozen dogs dashing around the pasture amidst a few extremely plush-looking sheep, who don’t seem fazed at all by the activity. A cat is perched on a fence-post, licking its hindquarters, and Chewpaca and Too-Pac are both grazing in the next fenced-in pasture over, standing guard over about a dozen frolicking baby goats.

  Hope’s still in the barn, finishing up the milking. “Hey, pretty pumpkin-poo,” I call.

  She uses her forearm to push hair back out of her face and laughs, which feels like a home run.

  “So pretty pumpkin-poo is on the keeper list?” I ask.

  She grins wider. “Nah. But the nicknames in general are starting to grow on me, monkey buns. Did you forget something?”

  “Just to kiss my wife goodbye.” I smile at her, and add in a softer voice, “In case someone’s watching, of course.”

  Her eyes go momentarily wide, and then she gives the mama goat a quick pat. I feel a surge of guilt when I remember fighting with her right here, over the goat milking station, barely a year ago.

  “Lucky me,” she says, but the words are more breathless than sarcastic, and I high-five myself for finally doing the right thing here.

  I smile at her. “And then you won’t have to worry about so much as looking at me for hours and hours,” I promise as we meet halfway between the milking station and the barn door.

  “Looking at you isn’t exactly a hardship,” she confesses in a whisper.

  “Don’t spare my ego. I know you’d rather look at Dildo Shaggins.”

  She smiles, and I couldn’t resist kissing her if my life depended on it.

  So even though this is technically for the cameras and the detective and the sake of her alpaca, I enjoy every moment of my mouth capturing hers.

  The way she threads her fingers through my hair.

  The feel of her curves under those tight pants.

  The taste of coffee on her lips.

  The tickle of her breath on my skin.

  A man could drown in a kiss like this.

  Happily.

  “Wow,” she murmurs against my lips.

  “Not bad, eh?”

  “Passable.” She giggles again while I chuckle. I consider going in for just one more, but she pokes me in the chest. Though, when she speaks, she still sounds as dazed as I feel. “Go on. Get out of here and get your work done.”

  Or neither of us will be getting any work done, I silently add.

  I want to toss her over my shoulder and carry her back to her house and not get anything but her done today, but we both have commitments, and more importantly, I’m not going to rush this.

  She’s worth waiting for.

  And I want her one hundred percent, no doubts, all-in ready before I make love to her.

  The fact that she’s willing to let me go says we’re not quite there yet.

  Disappointing as it may be.

  “I’ll miss you, boopsie-boo,” I call as I exit the barn.

  “Not like I’ll miss you, honey nuts,” she calls back, and I can’t help laughing.

  Ten minutes later, as I push through the door to my little cabin on the edge of Jace’s property, Hope’s still dancing through my thoughts. Half my brain is back in the barn with my wife. That’s the only excuse for why it takes a full thirty seconds to realize I’m not alone.

  But the three men scattered around my small living room, drinking my coffee and taking up all the space on my second-hand couch and favorite La-Z-Boy are being weirdly quiet.

  Almost like they’ve been lurking in wait to shout—

  “Surprise,” a deep voice rumbles from the couch, lifting his mug my way.

  “You little shit,” I say, my smile splitting my face.

  Ignoring Ryan and Jace—those two are always up in my space—I tackle my baby brother. His military buzz cut is shorter and his neck even thicker than when he was in town for the wedding, but he looks good. Happy and healthy and practically busting the seams of his Marines tee shirt.

  “Watch the coffee, asshole,” Clint says with a grin while he dodges me.

  Jace has my back, and he leaps on Clint with an uncharacteristically happy, “Dog pile!” and soon all four of us are wrestling on the ground like we’re kids again.

  “You didn’t tell me you were coming back, turd,” I say as I noogie the only brother I ever had a chance of shoving around. At least for a few years, until the baby of the family bulked up like a ripped Bulldog his freshman year of high school.

  “Would have ruined the surprise, idiot.” He grunts, rolls, and suddenly all three of us are pinned under Clint, me with my arm twisted, Ryan yelping about his spleen, and Jace shrieking to watch the nuts, because he and Olivia are definitely having more kids.

  “Weaklings,” Clint says with a grin.

  He lets us all go, leaving us huffing and smiling and laughing as we climb to our feet. I give him a man-hug, because fuck, I miss him when he’s gone.

  I’m proud as hell that he’s serving our country, but I wish he didn’t have to do it in Japan.

  “You came home,” I babble. I’m still stuck on having him here, in person. It’s like one of those homecoming videos on Facebook, except way the hell better.

  “Last chance for me to actually be here for one of your bachelor parties instead of tuned in from halfway around the world.” He thumps my back, which hurts, because dude doesn’t know his own strength. I’m no weakling, either, but I’m not a Marine. “So don’t give me any of this I’m already married bullshit. We’re still having a bachelor party.”

  “I’ll bring the booze,” Jace says.

  “Damn right. I got the party tricks.” Clint grabs my end table and lifts it over his head one-handed.

  Considering the thing weighs a couple hundred pounds, yeah, that’s a party trick.

  “I’ll bring the strippers,” Ryan offers.

  We all look at him.

  He grins, and we all crack up.

  “Okay, yeah, I’ll bring George,” he amends. “My trash panda never got a bachelor party either.”

  “George has a private bachelor party every day,” Jace says. “And you don’t want to know what I caught him and Sticky Fingers doing behind my bar the other night. I had to shield the baby’s eyes.”

  “Shameless trash panda,” Clint says with a grin. “Where is the old boy? I brought him snacks from Japan.”

  Ryan reclaims his coffee. “Probably on the square. He’s still holding out hope that Maud and Gerald will forget he’s lurking in wait and toss their old pastries.”

  “Speaking of hope, let’s talk about Hope,” Clint says with a grin and a brow wiggle. “How’s married life, old man?”

  I slouch back against the La-Z-Boy with a smile.

  Waking up with Hope in my arms?

  That was perfect.

  I shrug. “Can’t complain.”

  “Of course you can’t,” Jace says. “No man getting newlywed nookie can complain.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” So technically I could probably lodge a complaint.

  But I won’t. Just because Hope’s still skittish doesn’t mean Operation: Real Romance won’t succeed.

  I’m a patient man.

  I will win over my wife.

  “I highly approve of all nookie,” Ryan announces. “Newlywed and post-newlywed and pre-newlywed. Anything without a raccoon interfering is good.”

  Clint rolls his eyes. “Back to the bachelor party before you all get too graphic. So. Me. You three bozos. George. Who else?”

  “If George is coming, Chewpaca should too,” I tell them.

  We all look at Jace.

  “No way. I’m not bringing Princess and Duchess to a bachelor party. That’s way too rough for them. They’re tiny.”

  “Agreed,” Clint say
s. “No hedgehogs. They might fall in a beer glass.”

  “Poker night at Mom and Dad’s place,” Jace declares. “The four of us back together, Dad, my raccoon, Blake’s new alpaca. It’ll be perfect.”

  “Aw, man, Cassie loves poker night,” Ryan says. “We should do a bachelor party with the ladies too. You know Mom’ll read us the riot act if she’s not invited.”

  Jace nods. “I’m down with that. Liv and the baby can come too.”

  “So you can cheat and have her read the cards?” I say, poking him in the ribs.

  He slugs me in the arm. “I don’t need to cheat to beat the pants off you.”

  “Hey, hey, break it up. We’re all winners just for being back together again,” Ryan points out.

  “Puke,” Jace says, but he’s grinning as he adds, “you’re such a sap.”

  “Total sap, but fuck, I missed you assholes.” Clint grabs us all in a group tackle-hug again. “Poker night bachelor party. Tomorrow night. Cancel your other plans, boys, because I’m only here for four days.”

  “Damn,” I mutter.

  Jace’s phone dings, and though we could tease him about being attached to it, waiting for new baby pictures every time he’s apart from Olivia for more than half an hour, instead we all lean over to look, because Clover is adorable.

  But while it is Olivia who’s texting him, it’s not a baby picture.

  And the message—Trouble at goat yoga. Star just texted me. Are you with Blake? I think Hope needs help. Urgently.—has me on my feet and flying back out the door.

  Fourteen

  Hope

  * * *

  The square is packed with excited citizens of Happy Cat, young and old, who’ve joined us on the warm spring morning to roll out their mats and do yoga with the baby goats.

  We’re inside a temporary fence so our four-legged friends don’t run off. And while I’d love to be in downward dog with the twenty-five happy yogis warming up with sun salutations, I’m busy supervising the kids scampering over their backs and bottoms, handing the giddy baby goats carrots when they get too interested in ponytails and moustaches.