CRAVING THE WRONG MAN

IT'S INSANE I KNOW

MIA

"You have jam."

I look at Saint's thumb resting against the corner of my mouth, and for one stupid second, I forget how to breathe.

It is such a small thing.

So small that if anyone else told me about it, I would probably laugh and tell them they were reading too much into nothing. But I know Saint. I know how rarely he touches me when there isn't a reason for it, and I know how carefully I have learned to live around those small distances between us.

So when his thumb brushes my skin, my whole body notices.

"Thank you," I whisper.

His eyes stay on mine for another second before he pulls his hand away.

"You're staring."

"I'm not."

A smile threatens the corner of his mouth.

I lower my eyes because I don't want him to see how much that tiny smile is doing to me.

There are moments like this that make loving Saint feel almost easy.

Almost.

He picks up his coffee again, and I watch him take another sip.

I should tell him. The little black box is upstairs in my drawer, waiting for me.

I should put it in his hand right now and watch his face change when he realizes that the two of us are about to become three.

But I can't stop thinking about the way he touched me.

Maybe I don't want to ruin this morning by making it serious.

Maybe I want to keep this version of us for a little longer.

"Do you plan to go to the clubhouse today?" I ask.

"Later."

"Later?"

He nods."There's a meeting around noon."

"Oh."

I try not to sound too pleased.

He notices anyway. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Mia."

I smile into my coffee. "I just thought you were leaving early."

"I was."

"Why aren't you then?"

His eyes hold mine. "I can stay."

Two simple words.

I feel them hit somewhere behind my ribs and my heart flutter.

I hate how easily he can still do this to me.

How easily he can give me one little thing and make me wonder if maybe I've been wrong all along.

Maybe he does feel something for me.

Maybe three years of marriage have changed what started as a promise to my father into something real.

I look down before he can read all of that on my face.

"Then stay."

"I am."

I smile.

And for the rest of breakfast, I let myself pretend.

Afterward, Saint disappears upstairs to take a call while I clean the kitchen.

I find myself humming. Actually f*****g humming, it's insane and it's pathetic I know.

I stop halfway through wiping the counter and stare at myself.

"You're ridiculous," I mutter.

My reflection in the dark kitchen window smiles back at me.

I am twenty-one years old, married to the president of the Night Saints, and pregnant with his child.

For the first time, I don't feel like the girl who was handed a wedding ring because her father was dying and made a dying wish.

I feel like a woman building a family.

I touch my stomach. "Maybe he'll be happy."

The words leave my mouth quietly.

I know there is a chance he won't react the way I imagine.

I know Saint.

He doesn't get excited easily. He doesn't show much. Even when something matters to him, he has a way of keeping it buried beneath that hard expression.

But I know something else too.

He never broke his promise to my father.

Not once.

When my father died, Saint could have walked away from me. He could have handed the gavel to someone else. He could have told the club that a dying man's request wasn't enough to dictate the rest of his life.

But he didn't. Instead he married me.

He took the gavel. He stayed.

Sometimes I think that has to mean something. Even if I haven't figured out exactly what.

By eleven, I am standing in front of my closet wondering what to wear.

I don't need to go anywhere. I just want to look nice when Saint sees me, I want to impress him, even though I've been doing that for three years.

That realization makes me laugh again.

I pull a cream-colored dress from the closet. Then I change my mind and choose jeans.

Then I put the dress back on.

"You're hopeless," I tell myself.

When I walk downstairs, Saint is waiting near the front door.

He looks at me. His eyes travel over the dress before returning to my face.

"You look nice."

I nearly trip over my own feet at the simple compliment "Thank you."

He reaches for his jacket and I stare at him.

"You said you were staying."

"I am."

"But you're leaving."

"I'm taking you somewhere."

I blink in confusion. “Where? For what?"

He looks at me like the answer should be obvious.

"For our anniversary."

I stare at him as the words hit me like a joke.

He remembered?

For three years, I have been the one marking the date on calendars and leaving little reminders in places he would see them.

This year, I didn't remind him and he remembered.

"You remembered," I say before I can stop myself.

His eyebrows pull together. "Of course I remembered."

I don't know why those four words make my throat tighten.

“So where are we going?” I force my voice to ask, ignoring the tingles fluttering in my belly.

"The clubhouse."

My smile disappears for half a second.

"Oh."

He notices. "You don't want to go?"

"I didn't say that." I sigh. "I just don't know if they want me there."

Saint's expression changes.

"They do, it's been a long time since you were there since your Dad's death."

I look at him. "Do you want me there then?"

He doesn't answer immediately, he just reaches for the door.

"Come on, Mia."

I follow him.

And I hate myself a little for how happy those three words make me—

***