Page 31 of Gin and Bear It

“I swear, Ash. We aren’t even married yet,” I say.

His chuckle turns into a full-on laugh as I walk to my room.

It’s going to be a long year.

TEN

JADA

I didn’t anticipate that my wedding day would start with me walking into my kitchen and finding my fiancé standing next to my coffee machine in nothing but a red silk robe and boxer briefs.

This is the second time I’ve seen him in this robe, but it hits me like it’s the first time. The silk robe shouldn’t work, and it definitely shouldn’t make me feel a damn thing. And yet, seeing his bare chest, inked and muscled, framed by all that red?

I don’t even know what to do, or how to process the fact that this man is going to be my husband in a couple hours.

He’s barely awake, his eyes slightly unfocused as he stares out the window above the sink and yawns. Does he even notice me?

Pip slinks into the room and butts his head on his ankle, which snaps him out of it. He notices me and nods in greeting.

“Morning. You okay?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes off the tattoos on his chest. The style is different than the ones on his arms, and that style is different than the ones I can see on his legs. My eyes dart away from the swell of his cock behind his boxer briefs as much as I want to linger. The idea of looking at him is making me uncomfortably tingly.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, tossing something into his mouth.

“The couch isn’t that bad, is it?” I narrow my eyes. “Wait, are you just eating the coffee grounds? What the fuck?”

“I generally can’t sleep. I haven’t been able to for at least a year.” He shrugs. “And yeah, I’m eating some grounds. Don’t worry about it.”

“I will absolutely worry about it. Is your stomach filled with nuclear waste?” I nudge him aside, ignoring the way his robe opens and exposes even more of his bare chest. “I’m making you a cup of proper coffee.”

“The grounds are concentrated caffeine.”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t work that way.” I dump enough grounds into the machine for two cups and fill it with water. “Also, why not drink an energy drink?”

“Because I already feel like shit and I don’t need heart palpitations added to that.” He leans against the counter and looks me up and down, appreciative but not creepy.

Fine, I got a little bit dressed—I threw on a bralette and a form-fitting T-shirt with my leggings. I wish I could say I didn’t give a shit about what he thought of how I look, but I do. I rarely get checked out by men who aren’t making me feel like crawling out of my skin.

He should make me feel like that. But somehow he never does.

I finish the coffee and open my cabinet filled with mugs, plucking my favorite for myself and skimming my options for Ash’s.

“Milk?” I ask.

“Sure.”

His eyebrows go up when he sees the mug, and his mouth settles into a smirk. It says thick thighs save lives in hot pink letters.

“Nice choice,” he says. “I’m not a breakfast person, by the way. So we don’t have to fight over that.”

“I usually am a breakfast person, but I feel like throwing up,” I say, burning my tongue. “Shit.”

“Because of our fake wedding?”

“Of course.” I frown. “You aren’t worried? At all?”

“It’ll be fine.” He shrugs a shoulder like we aren’t about to sort of commit fraud. “It’s inevitable.”

“Just because it’s inevitable doesn’t mean it’s not scary.” I put a foot out for Pip to butt his head against. He flops onto the ground and stretches his arms out with a yawn.