Craving The Wrong Man

MIA

The first thing I do when I wake up is touch my stomach.

It is almost ridiculous because there is nothing to feel yet. No little kick, no tiny movement beneath my palm, nothing that could prove the secret growing inside me is real. Still, my hand settles there before I am even fully awake, and for a few seconds I lie beneath the sheets with my eyes closed, smiling at the ceiling because I know something Saint doesn't.

It is our anniversary and I'm pregnant.

The thought still feels too big to fit inside my head.

I turn slowly onto my side and look at the man sleeping beside me.

Saint is facing away from me, one arm tucked beneath his pillow, dark hair slightly messy against the white sheets. He looks nothing like the man everyone else sees. There is no leather jacket, no gun resting against his hip, no hard expression that makes grown men lower their voices when he walks into a room. Right now, he is simply my husband, asleep in our bed with his back turned toward me.

For a moment, I let myself imagine that everything between us is different.

I imagine waking him with the news, imagine the surprise on his face when I place the little black socks I bought in his hand, imagine him looking at them for a long second before realizing what they mean. Maybe he'll smile. Maybe he'll pull me into his arms. Maybe he'll kiss my forehead and tell me that he's happy.

Maybe he'll finally look at me and see more than the woman he married because my father asked him to.

My smile fades a little at the thought, but I don't let it stay there.

Not today.

Today, I am going to tell him. I want today to be achingly beautiful for us.

I reach over carefully and pick up my phone from the nightstand. The screen says 6:17 a.m. I have been awake for nearly an hour, mostly because every time I close my eyes, my mind runs through all the different ways I could tell him.

I've considered breakfast.

I've considered leaving the pregnancy test beside his coffee.

I've considered simply saying, *Saint, I'm pregnant*, and letting the words fall between us without dressing them up.

Instead, I have bought something.

I slip out of bed quietly, open the bottom drawer of my nightstand, and take out the small black box hidden beneath a stack of old receipts. Inside are the tiniest pair of black socks I have ever seen.

They are so small that I laugh every time I look at them.

Saint wears black almost every day. Black shirts. Black boots. Black jeans. Black leather. Even the watch he wears is black, and the men in his club have joked more than once that the man has probably never owned a shirt that wasn't dark enough to hide blood.

So when I saw these little socks yesterday, I bought them without thinking.

They have tiny white skulls stitched near the toes.

I can already hear his reaction. *"Seriously, Mia?"*

And I'll laugh and tell him our baby needs to start early.

The thought warms me so much that I press the box against my chest for a second before putting it back in the drawer.

I get dressed and head downstairs.

The house is quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that only exists before the Night Saints clubhouse wakes up and before Saint's phone starts ringing every five minutes. Sunlight is barely coming through the kitchen windows, turning everything soft and pale.

I make coffee the way he likes it.

Two sugars. No cream.

I still remember the first time I made it wrong.

I had been eighteen, newly married, and so nervous about being Saint's wife that I had spent twenty minutes trying to make a cup of coffee that could impress a man who had probably never been impressed by anything in his life.

He had taken one sip, looked at me, and said, "Too sweet."

I had wanted to throw the entire cup at his head.

Instead, I had memorized the exact amount of sugar he liked.

Three years later, I still make it the same way.

Maybe that's what marriage has become for me. Remembering things.

Remembering how he takes his coffee. Remembering which side of the bed he prefers. Remembering that he likes his eggs barely cooked and hates when his shirts are ironed too sharply because he says the creases make him look like he's going to a funeral.

Remembering all the tiny pieces of a man who has never seemed interested in learning mine.

I put breakfast on the table and glance toward the staircase.

Maybe today he'll notice.

Maybe today I'll tell him.

Maybe having a baby will change something.

I hate that I am still hopeful.

I hate it even more because hope feels so good.

Footsteps sound upstairs, and my heart gives a stupid little jump.

A moment later, Saint walks into the kitchen.

He has already changed into black jeans and a fitted dark shirt, his sleeves pushed to his forearms. His hair is still slightly damp, and there is a phone pressed to his ear as he listens to someone on the other end.

And then he sees me.

His eyes pause on me for half a second.

Then he says into the phone, "I'll handle it."

He ends the call and puts the phone on the counter.

"Morning."

One word.

It shouldn't mean anything. But It does.

"Morning." I reply back, my stomach turning at just a simple greeting.

His eyes move to the table. "You made breakfast."

"I did."

He pulls out a chair and sits. I watch him reach for his coffee.

He takes one sip, then he looks at me.

"You finally got it right."

I stare at him. "What?"

"The coffee."

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. "It only took three years."

His mouth moves slightly, almost a smile.

"You're getting better."

"Don't sound so surprised Saint."

"I'm surprised by a lot of things."

I sit across from him, trying not to smile too much.

This is nothing. It's barely a conversation.

But for me, it feels like something big.

Saint picks up a piece of toast, and I watch his hands while he eats. There is a faint scar across his knuckle that I have known for years. I know which side he sleeps on. I know he hates when anyone touches his motorcycle without asking. I know he doesn't like crowded restaurants, hates tomatoes, and never drinks coffee after noon because it keeps him awake.

I know these things because I have spent three years paying attention.

I wonder what he knows about me.

Before I can ask myself that question for too long, Saint reaches across the table and wipes something from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.

I freeze at the contact.

His hand stays there for one second longer than necessary.

"You have jam."

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 fucking 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-

***

MIA

The Night Saints clubhouse is already alive when we arrive.

Motorcycles line the front of the building, their chrome catching the afternoon sunlight. Men move in and out through the doors, some carrying boxes, others talking in low voices. The air smells like gasoline, leather, coffee, and whatever someone is grilling around the back.

This place has never felt completely like mine.

It belongs to Saint now.

It used to belong to my father before him.

Sometimes I feel like I am only borrowing a corner of it because I happen to wear the president's ring.

Saint places his hand lightly against the small of my back as we walk inside.

I look down at it. Then at him. He doesn't seem to notice what he's doing.

But I do. I notice everything.

"President." One of the men greets him.

Saint nods.

His hand leaves my back and I immediately miss it.

God. I really am hopeless.

We make it halfway across the main room before I hear a familiar voice.

"Saint, the meeting with the Red Vipers has been moved to four."

I turn.

Maren stands near the office doorway with a tablet tucked against her chest.

I've seen her before of course. Many times.

But somehow, today feels different. Maybe because I'm pregnant and my hormones are probably acting up.

Maybe because I'm standing beside Saint with a secret inside me that makes me look at everything differently.

Maren is beautiful in a way that doesn't seem intentional. Her brown hair is pulled into a loose knot, and she's wearing black trousers, boots, and a fitted gray shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. There is nothing delicate about her.

She looks capable. Like she belongs here. And she does.

She has worked for Saint for years as his executive aide, handling club schedules, meetings, communications, records, and the endless stream of information that comes with running an MC. If Saint is the man everyone sees, Maren is often the person making sure everything behind him keeps moving.

She knows the club. She knows its members. She knows Saint most especially.

And once upon a time, she knew him in a way I never have.

She was his first love. Ex-girlfriend.

The woman who had been in his life before my father put me in it with a dying wish.

I knew about her before I married Saint. I knew everything I needed to know.

Or at least, I thought I did.

Maren looks at me and gives me a small smile.

"Hi, Mia."

"Hi." I say, trying not to sound awkward.

She looks at my dress. "You look lovely."

"Thank you."

There is no hostility in her voice. No hidden insult. Nothing I can hate her for.

And that almost makes it worse.

Because if she were cruel, I could easily dislike her.

If she were arrogant, I could tell myself Saint had simply mistaken familiarity for love.

But Maren is just...normal.

She turns back to Saint. "The documents you wanted are in your office."

"Did you go through them?" He asks.

"I did."

"And?"

"The numbers from the north territory don't match last month's report."

Saint's attention sharpens immediately. "Show me."

She walks toward him at once.

I watch them disappear into the office together.

I don't follow.

Instead, I stand there with my hands clasped in front of me, suddenly aware of how little I know about my own husband's world.

Maren doesn't need to ask Saint what he wants.

She knows.

She doesn't need him to explain what he's thinking.

She seems to understand him from one look alone.

And I hate the tiny voice inside my head asking the question I don't want to answer.

*Will I ever know him like that?*

I look down at my wedding ring.

Three years. Three years, and I still feel like I am learning my husband from the outside all over again.

I know his coffee order. His favorite food. The side of the bed he sleeps on. The sound of his footsteps when he's not in a good mood.

But Maren knows his business.

His history.

His instincts.

Maybe she knows the man underneath the president even though Saint had told me he had nothing with Maren anymore ever since we got married. I know it's not the truth but I'll believe it.

I press my lips together. I don't want to be jealous. Especially not today.

Today is supposed to be beautiful.

I have a baby inside me and I am going to tell my husband.

And maybe, after today, I won't have to wonder anymore.

An hour later, Saint finds me sitting outside on the clubhouse steps.

"Why did you disappear? You could easily get lost here Mia"

I look over my shoulder. "I'm sorry, I just needed air."

He sits beside me, and for a while, neither of us speaks.

The noise from the clubhouse drifts through the open door behind us, but out here, everything feels quieter.

Saint rests his forearms against his knees.

"You seem like you don't like it here, I wouldn't have brought you."

"I do."

"You don't Mia."

I smile faintly. "You're very annoying when you're right."

He looks at me and I chuckle.

He looks away, but I think I catch the small smile on his face or maybe I'm imagining it.

My heart does that stupid thing again.

I lean back against the step. "Do you ever miss it?"

"Miss what exactly?"

"I mean before everything."

He looks at me confused. "Before what?"

"Before we got married." I drop the words.

His expression becomes unreadable and I regret asking almost immediately.

But then he says with a calm face, "Sometimes."

Maybe this is enough. Maybe I don't need to know everything today.

Maybe I just need to tell him about the baby and watch his after-reaction

I swallow hard. "Saint"

I take his hand all of a sudden and squeeze it in mine, trying to ignore the nervousness rising in my guts.

"Hm?" He turns to me with a mild expression.

"I have something to tell you."