Bonus Scene: Pregnant In Plaid - Ashwood Falls Book 2

Bonus Chapter - Trace

Three months later

     I'm getting married.

     The thought hits me for approximately the fiftieth time today as I stand at the front of the small chapel in Ashwood Falls, watching Patrice walk down the aisle toward me.

     Actually getting married. To the woman who color-codes our daughter's clothes. To the mother of my child. To the person who reorganizes my perfectly adequate diaper bag packing and somehow makes me love her more for it.

     She's wearing a simple white dress—nothing fancy, just like she wanted—and her hair is down in loose waves that catch the afternoon light streaming through the windows. Brooklyn is somewhere behind her in Tessa's arms, probably trying to eat the flower petals, but I can't look away from Patrice.

     She's smiling at me like I'm the only person in the room, and when she reaches me, her hand finds mine and squeezes.

     "Hi," she whispers.

     "Hi," I whisper back, because apparently I've lost all ability to form coherent thoughts.

     Dr. Martinez, who agreed to officiate because small-town Alaska is weird like that, grins at us. "Ready?"

     "So ready," Patrice says.

     The ceremony is short. We say our vows—the traditional ones because we both agreed that if we tried to write our own we'd end up crying or making inappropriate jokes about diapers. We exchange rings. Dr. Martinez pronounces us husband and wife with the kind of warmth that makes me remember she delivered our daughter and somehow became family in the process.

     "You may kiss your bride," she says.

     I cup Patrice's face in my hands and kiss her like I've been waiting my whole life for this moment. Which, it turns out, I have been.

     When we pull apart, Brooklyn makes a sound of protest from Tessa's arms. The entire congregation—all thirty people crammed into this tiny chapel—laughs.

     "She's protesting the PDA," Gage calls out.

     "She's nine months old. She doesn't know what PDA is," I call back.

     "She knows her parents are being gross."

     Patrice takes my hand, and we walk back down the aisle together as husband and wife while everyone claps and Brooklyn continues her commentary on our life choices.

***

     The reception at Moosehead Lodge is perfect in the way that small-town celebrations always are—chaotic, loud, full of people who've become family. The food is potluck style because that's how things work here. Marnie brought approximately six casseroles. Someone's uncle is manning a grill outside. There's a cake that Tessa made that leans slightly to one side but tastes like heaven.

     Brooklyn is being passed around like a tiny celebrity, currently in the arms of Dr. Martinez's husband, who's making faces at her that are sending her into fits of giggles.

     "Your daughter is flirting with my husband," Dr. Martinez observes, sitting down next to me at the head table.

     "She's a heartbreaker," I agree. "Gets it from her mom."

     Patrice, overhearing, kicks me under the table. "I did not break your heart."

     "You demolished it. Then rebuilt it. Then married me. I'm very emotionally confused."

     "You're very emotionally sappy," she corrects.

     Gage stands up then, tapping his glass to get everyone's attention. "Speech time," he announces. "Best man. That's me. Try to contain your excitement."

     "Get on with it," someone yells from the back.

     "Rude. Fine." He clears his throat dramatically. "I've known Trace since we were in the Army together. Back then, he was convinced he'd never settle down. Said commitment was for suckers. Said he liked his freedom. Said a lot of stupid things, actually."

     "Thanks, buddy," I mutter.

     "Then he met Patrice. Well, technically he slept with Patrice, panicked, avoided all commitment like the plague, and then found out he was going to be a father." Gage grins. "Watching him freak out was the most entertainment I've had in years."

     The crowd laughs. Patrice squeezes my hand.

     "But here's the thing about Trace," Gage continues, his voice softening. "When it matters, he shows up. He's the guy who'll chop wood for an hour to process his feelings. He's the guy who'll buy out an entire baby store because he's terrified of not being prepared. He's the guy who'll spend all night assembling a crib wrong just to make sure his daughter has a place to sleep."

My throat tightens.

     "Patrice, you got a good one. He's going to drive you crazy with his terrible furniture assembly skills and his tendency to overpack diaper bags. But he's going to love you and Brooklyn with everything he has. And Brooklyn—" Gage raises his glass toward where Brooklyn is currently trying to eat Dr. Martinez's husband's tie, "—you got the best dad. Even if he panicked for the first six months."

     "Still panicking," I call out.

     "That's just called parenting." Gage lifts his glass higher. "To Trace and Patrice. May your marriage be full of love, laughter, and correctly assembled furniture."

     Everyone drinks. I'm trying not to tear up and failing.

     Tessa stands next, wiping her eyes because she's already crying. "Okay, my turn. Patrice is my best friend. Has been since college when we bonded over terrible cafeteria food and even worse dating choices."

     Patrice groans. "You're going to tell them about—"

     "Todd? Absolutely." Tessa grins through her tears. "There was this guy named Todd who wore cargo shorts year-round and thought he was a pickup artist. Patrice dated him for three months before she realized he was terrible."

     "In my defense, I was very busy with spreadsheets," Patrice says.

     "You color-coded a breakup plan."

     "It was efficient!"

     The room is laughing now, and Tessa's smile wobbles. "But here's what you need to know about Patrice. She's the bravest person I know. She flew to Alaska seven months pregnant to face a guy she thought had forgotten her. She went through premature labor alone—well, with Trace, who didn’t panic—and came out stronger. She gave up her carefully planned life in Florida to build something better here."

     Tessa looks at me. "Trace, you're my husband's best friend, which makes you family. But more than that, you made my best friend happy. You gave her a life she didn't know she wanted. And you gave me the world's cutest goddaughter." She raises her glass. "To Patrice and Trace. May your life be full of adventure, love, and babies who sleep through the night."

     "Amen to that last part," Patrice says.

     We eat. We dance. Brooklyn falls asleep on Gage's shoulder and doesn't wake up when Tessa carefully transfers her to the car seat they've brought for tonight.

     "You two have fun," Tessa says, winking so obviously that half the room probably sees it. "We'll take good care of Brooklyn."

     "Call if she needs anything," Patrice says immediately.

     "She'll be fine. It's one night. Go enjoy your wedding night." Tessa hugs us both. "You earned this."

     They leave with Brooklyn, and suddenly it's just us. The first time we've been truly alone—no baby monitor, no middle-of-the-night feedings, no tiny dictator who launches sweet potatoes at my face demanding attention—in nine months.

     "We're alone," Patrice says, like she can't quite believe it.

     "Just us."

     "What do we do?"

     "I have some ideas."

     She laughs, and the sound fills the space where Brooklyn's cries usually live. "Take me home, husband."

     "Yes, wife."

***

     The drive back to the cabin takes fifteen minutes, but it feels like an eternity. Patrice's hand is on my thigh, her thumb tracing patterns that are absolutely distracting, and I nearly run off the road twice.

     "You're going to kill us before we get there," she observes.

     "Then stop touching me like that."

     "Like what?" She moves her hand higher, and I actually growl.

     "You're evil."

     "I'm your wife. I'm allowed to be evil."

     We pull into the driveway, and I'm out of the truck and opening her door before she can unbuckle. She laughs as I lift her out—she's not heavy, but she's also not expecting to be carried, so there's a moment of awkward adjustment before I get her situated.

     "I can walk," she protests.

     "I'm carrying you over the threshold. It's tradition."

     "We've lived here for nine months."

     "Then I'm retroactively carrying you over the threshold."

     I manage to get us inside without dropping her, which is a victory. The cabin is quiet. Empty. Ours.

     "No interruptions," Patrice says, and this time her voice has gone lower, softer.

     "Finally," I agree, setting her down carefully.

     She turns to face me, and the look in her eyes makes my pulse spike. "I've been waiting for this all day."

     "Just today?"

     "Okay, nine months. But especially today."

     I cup her face, kissing her slowly, taking my time with it. We've got all night. No baby monitor. No crying. No interruptions.

     Her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders, pulling me closer. I back her against the door, deepening the kiss, and she makes a sound low in her throat that I feel everywhere.

     "Bedroom," she breathes against my mouth.

     "Trying to get there."

     "Try harder."

     I pick her up—easier than the threshold carry—and she wraps her legs around my waist, her dress bunching up between us. I somehow navigate to our bedroom without walking into furniture, which given how distracted I am qualifies as a miracle.

     I set her down next to the bed, and she immediately reaches for my tie, tugging it loose while I work on the buttons of my shirt. Her fingers are impatient, fumbling slightly, and I catch her hands.

     "Slow down," I say.

     "I don't want slow."

     "We have all night. Let me look at you."

     I reach for the zipper on her dress, tugging it down inch by inch. The fabric slides off her shoulders, and she lets it fall to the floor.

     I forget how to breathe.

     She's wearing white lace underneath. Not the practical nursing bras and comfortable underwear she's lived in for months. This is delicate, barely there, showing more skin than lace.

     "You've been wearing this all day?" I manage.

     "Since this morning." She smirks. "Surprise."

     "I'm having a heart attack."

     "Please don't. I have plans for you."

     She finishes unbuttoning my shirt, pushing it off my shoulders, her hands trailing over my chest and down my stomach in a way that makes me forget how to breathe. I pull her against me, skin to skin, and the feel of her after months of careful, exhausted, baby-interrupted intimacy is overwhelming.

     I kiss her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, taking my time exploring the places I've memorized. She tilts her head back, giving me access, her fingers threading through my hair.

     "Trace," she breathes.

     "Yeah?"

     "Bed. Now."

     I guide her backward until her legs hit the mattress, and she pulls me down with her. The lace is in my way, and I carefully work it off her, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin. She arches into my touch, her breath coming faster.

     "You're overdressed," she says, reaching for my belt.

     I help her, kicking off pants and boxers until there's nothing between us. Just skin and heat and the feeling of coming home.

     I settle between her legs, bracing myself on my forearms so I don't crush her, and she wraps herself around me like she's trying to get closer even though we're already as close as two people can be.

     "Hi," I whisper, because the moment feels too big for anything else.

     "Hi," she whispers back, and then I'm kissing her and moving with her, and everything else disappears.

     Her body changed bringing Brooklyn into the world—softer here, marked there—and I love every inch of proof that she carried our daughter. I trace those changes with my hands, my mouth, trying to show her how beautiful she is, how perfect.

     "I love you," I say against her skin.

     "I love you too." Her hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging in slightly.                  "Don't stop."

     I don't.

     The rhythm builds between us, familiar and new at the same time. She moves with me, her breath hitching, and I can feel the tension coiling tighter. I slide a hand between us, touching her where I know she needs it, and she gasps.

     "There," she breathes. "Right there."

     I keep the pressure steady, watching her face as she gets closer. Her eyes are closed, her mouth open, and she's never looked more beautiful than she does right now—completely lost in this, in us.

     When she comes apart, it's with my name on her lips and her body tightening around me. The sensation pulls me over the edge with her, and for a moment there's nothing but her and me and this.

***

     We lie tangled together afterward, both of us breathing hard, her head on my chest and my hand tracing lazy patterns on her back.

     "That was—" she starts.

     "Yeah."

     "We should have done that months ago."

     "Pretty sure we tried. Someone kept interrupting."

     "Our daughter has terrible timing."

     "She gets that from you."

     She pinches my side, and I laugh, catching her hand and bringing it to my lips.

     "Round two?" she asks hopefully.

     "Give me five minutes."

     "I'll give you three."

***

     Later—much later—we're tangled in sheets, both of us grinning and breathless.

     "I missed this," Patrice says, trailing her fingers over my chest. "Us. Without being exhausted or covered in spit-up."

     "We're still exhausted."

     "Different kind of exhausted." She kisses my shoulder. "The good kind."

     My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Then buzzes again. And again.

     "Ignore it," Patrice says.

     "I'm trying."

     It keeps buzzing.

     "Answer it," she sighs.

     I grab the phone. Three texts from Tessa.

          Tessa: Brooklyn is fine

          Tessa: Stop worrying

          Tessa: Come get your child she's been awake since 5am and won't stop asking for you

     "She can't talk," I say. "How is she asking for us?"

     "Crying, probably." Patrice sits up, and I immediately mourn the loss of her warmth. "We should go get her."

     "In a minute." I pull her back down for one more kiss, slow and deep. "Last night was perfect."

     "It really was."

     She traces my jaw with her fingers, her expression soft. "Best decision I ever made."

     "Flying to Alaska or marrying me?"

     "Both. Definitely both."

     We get dressed—slowly, with multiple interruptions for kissing—and head out to pick up Brooklyn. The cabin feels different somehow. Not emptier without her, but fuller. Like we're complete now—married, a real family, official.

     "Next time we do this, we're getting a full weekend," Patrice says as we pull up to Gage and Tessa's place.

     "Deal."

     Tessa opens the door with Brooklyn in her arms, and our daughter makes a sound of pure joy when she sees us, reaching out with grabby hands.

     "Mama! Dada!" she babbles, which aren't quite words yet but are close enough to make my chest tight.

     I take her, and she immediately grabs my nose. "Missed you, bug."

     "She missed you too," Tessa says. "Also, she's been changed, fed, and is probably going to crash in about fifteen minutes. You're welcome."

     "You're the best," Patrice tells her.

     "I know. Now go home. Be married. Enjoy your tiny demon child."

     We drive home with Brooklyn chattering nonsense in the backseat, and when we pull into the driveway, I look over at Patrice.

     "So," I say. "How's married life?"

     "Ask me again in a year."

     "Patrice."

     She grins. "It's perfect. Chaotic and exhausting and perfect."

     "Yeah?"

     "Yeah."

     Brooklyn throws her pacifier at my head from the backseat, which I'm choosing to interpret as agreement.

     "Welcome to married life," Patrice says, laughing as I retrieve the pacifier from the floor.

     "Wouldn't want it any other way."

     Brooklyn makes a sound that might be agreement or might be a demand for snacks—with her, it's hard to tell. Patrice reaches back and touches our daughter's foot, and I watch them both in the rearview mirror.

     Every weird, chaotic, sleep-deprived, sweet-potato-covered minute of it.