My notifications were red and ready to be skimmed over. Nadège tagged me in so many memes that I was nearly pissing my pants from laughter. My friend requests neared the two-hundred mark, driving my OCD forward. The top of the list was a request I never expected. Coen Fucking Kidd.
For the past two weeks, that name kept surfacing through my mind, and for some absurd reason, it made me feel euphoric, identically to when I hit the bestseller list.
His picture depicted him in shorts low on his hips, tattoos visible along with his sexy as fuck muscles bulging. Coen’s bike was black, sharp, and sporting him on top. My perverted brain only imagining him straddling me, even though it should be thinking of the pain I caused him earlier.
Get the fuck out of your own mind, woman!
Without thoughts of repercussions, I accepted his request. Instantly, a beep sounded. Had my editor responded to my latest inquiry? I opened it without checking the name.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.
Coen's short response broke my heart while making me feel like a million bucks all at once. Why should he have to explain himself anyway? We were only fucking, no strings attached or even defined at all.
You love him, my mind screamed at me, reminding me the truth I’d known all since the age of sixteen.
Best friends could be lovers too.
Don’t be. I overreacted, I quickly type out, wanting to say so much more. Carl never wanted children, and it kind of hit me hard.
My fingers tapped. I couldn’t not add it. Then, I realized that he’d ask why.
Because I do.
My stomach dropped as horrifying responses popped in my mind, conjuring imagery of his disappointment and disgust. Stop! Coen isn’t like that. Slowly, I felt sweat build at my brows, reminding me that two minutes passed, and the little “seen” check mark was visible. He’d read it but still hadn’t responded. Fuck. All the worst scenarios played out in my head.
Princess.
His response intrigued me while confusing my ever-loving heart. It beat hard in my chest. My lack of air intake would make it stop all together if I didn’t start inhaling. Breathe, Red. Placing my cold, clammy, and sweat-filled hand on my forehead, I controlled my breathing. Good girl. A nervous tact I’d carried was a serious lack of inhalation when scared. I’d tried so hard to overcompensate and ended up feeling worse.
A sudden beep brought my eyes to the little messenger box.
Carl is a fucking waste of space. I’m not saying the child is mine, but she fucked him more than me. I’d been gone for months at a time. It’s highly unlikely that the child is mine. We always wore protection.
He had one thing right. Carl was a piece of shit. I’d only recently encountered the affair so knowing he’d fucked her and then later came home to me caused a nauseating illness to take over my stomach.
If it is mine…I’ll make it work.
The stutter in my beating ribcage came from the reality that it could be Coen’s. I wasn’t much of a prayer, but I’d do just about anything to have that child be Carl’s.
Your desire to have kids is not a surprise. You’d be a fanfuckingtastic mother. I’d be honored to make beautiful babies with you, princess.
Make babies with me? He’d want that? To start a family, give me the one thing I’d always wanted? I suddenly forgot hot to breathe again, my stomach had fireflies flying around and hitting each wall inside me.
We can start whenever you are ready. I’m not scared to make little Reds. ;)
His response warmed my heart and made my ovaries bounce around like goddamned fireworks. When Carl left, I stopped taking my birth control. Not that it mattered, my gynecologist told me I was infertile. Now, all I could pray for was growing Coen’s babes inside of me. Would they have dark hair like him, or would be they be little auburn-haired devils like me? Stop thinking that way, Red. You. Can’t. Have. Babies.
My chest galloped, wondering where that put us as an us.
I might as well ask. Where does that put us?
Hopefully in my bed every fucking night. I don’t want to fight this, princess. The only thing I want is you.
I’m terrified.
I know, but I also know I’m going to treat you how you deserve. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’ll stop by after talking to my agent tonight. We’ll talk more then, okay?
I smiled at his response.
Dinner?
Only if you don’t touch shit. You were never the best with a stove.
A loud laugh escaped me, and I couldn’t contain it.
Ass… I’m good with a microwave and a cock. That’s about it.
One of the two of those is true. See you then, princess.
13
Birthdays Schmirthdays
Author Dating Rule #99: Please have super hardcore sex with me, I need inspiration for my books.
Sorry, not sorry.
Rebel
He never showed for dinner last night. No phone call, message, or a peep. Usually, I’d blow it off as if it was dust and move on, especially if it were Carl. Since he bailed on me a hundred times in the past. After our conversation earlier that day, my gut said something was wrong.
Don’t ever doubt your gut.
Stace had spent the past week or so here, and for once, she was out with Conor no less. They’d hit it off once again.
“Babe, what’s up?” her light voice sing-songed.
“Coen hasn’t responded to me. Can you ask Conor if he’s okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” Her asking him was barely audible. “Says he hasn’t heard from him all day.”
The double-edged sword punctured me. Something in the back of my mind gnawed at me that something was very wrong.
“I’ve got to go,” I spat out.
With my mind reeling and gut squeezing the life out of me, I drove to Conor’s. The lights were off, but maybe they kept a key in a fake rock on the porch like in the movies.
Ha! Inside a fake rock, there was a key settled inside. I fished it out, wondering how much more cliché this could get.
The house was silent. I jiggled open the door and searched for the light switch. As it flicked, a raucous “Surprise!” rang out. Twenty or so random people were here, including Hales, Stace, Conor, L.J., and Monty.
What the flip kip? I screamed the most non-pissing-my-pants shriek I could.
Coen stood front and center, then he sauntered to my side, brushing my disarrayed hair out of my face, “Happy Birthday, gorgeous.” His voice was like a chocolate-dipped caramel, smooth, succulent, and fucking panty-dropping.
Meanwhile, I was so disheveled they could call me a person digging from a random dumpster outside of some cheap buffet. I couldn’t even bring myself to say anything because of how shitty my appearance was. The smell of booze, cake, and food drifted in the air, and I was pissed I didn’t notice it initially. My mind had been in fear-zone-times-fifty and not in an investigative mode either.
How did I forget my own birthday? Wow, how shitty had my life been lately? The fact that I completely dismissed my birthday…stuck in the clouds much?
“You okay? It was Stace’s idea. She thought you needed a laugh.” He nipped at my ear. It was hard to feign happiness when it felt like a punch to the gut. I hated surprises. They unnerved me.