In a Jam (Friendship, RI Book 1)

by Kate Canterbary

She flopped back against the cushions. “This is it, isn’t it?” “What?” “The start of your villain era,” she said. “The ‘no fucks given, ask me if I care, throw out your whole life and start over just because you feel like it’ era.”

Seriously. Trucks painted like cows. Black with white spots and thick eyelashes around the headlights. Little name emblems on the driver’s side doors reading Buttercup, Clarabelle, Rosieroo, and Gingerlou

“Just wait. It gets more colorful.” “Get away from me,” Gennie grumbled. “Stupid asshat.” I motioned to the henhouse. “Like that.” “Gimme the egg, shithead.” I nodded while Shay clapped a hand over her mouth. “And that.” “Fucking chores. Hate this dumb shit.”

He shoved his phone in his back pocket and spared me a quick glance. “Figure out if I’m marrying you, okay? Good.”

She was beautiful in a way that overwhelmed me, though it wasn’t just her face, her body. She was a sunbeam through a storm cloud.

“He’s seen her,” Wheatie said, staring at me, “and spoken to her. A couple of times, if my math is correct.” “All right, all right,” he said, slapping his palms on his thighs. “What’s the move? What’s the play? Are we going straight for it, storm-the-beaches style or something low-key?” He peered at me, his eyes bright. “Do you even know how to be low-key?” “No,” Wheatie said. “He does not.”

I wanted to ask what that kid’s home life was like but my niece referred to the chickens as shithead bastards, so I had no legs to stand on here.

Because I couldn’t help myself, not for a single minute where this woman was involved, I called, “Let me know if you need me to marry you.”

This time, when I heard that reminder, it said there goes your wife.

“Come with me,” Gennie said. And that was how I bought myself a few more minutes in line at the frozen lemonade truck with Gennie’s head on my shoulder and my arm around Shay.

I nodded as I tucked a few pink strands over her ear again. The wind was keeping me busy here. I loved it.

And who the fuck is Jaime? Please don’t let it be the one from the situationship.

“Jaime’s my best friend,” she said, those precious little fingers still running over my shoulders and chest, tying concrete weights to every spot she touched before pushing me off a pier. “We’ve taught together for years. We talk just about every day. She’s the mom of our group.” All right. We’ll keep Jaime.

I’ll give you some pointers on how to make it look like you’re completely in love with me and uninterested in anyone else.” Yes. Show me what that looks like. I have no idea.

“I’m not sure. Is there something you’d share with me?” Only everything in the entire world.

“Some things never change.” She turned to face me. “I hope so.”

“Shaylene Joann Zucconi,” Jaime roared. “You’ve been keeping secrets, young lady.” “You know that’s not my middle name.” “Yes, but it felt like a Joann moment,” she replied.

“The dogs went crazy last night,” Gennie said. “Do you want me to tell you about it?” “Definitely,” Grace replied. “Start at the beginning. Leave nothing out. What are the dogs’ names?” “Bernie Sanders, Elliot Stabler, Olivia Benson, Sandra Day O’Connor, and RuPaul were the troublemakers,” Gennie said. “Unsurprising, with that group,” Grace said. “Go on.”

I’m also in very deep with an assortment of unsavories. You know what I’m talking about. Motorcycle gangs, mafia. And then there’s the worst of them—” She leaned in close. “Private equity guys.”

Instead, I pulled my hand from his hold and held it up in the universal high five position. As one did upon getting fake married.

Gennie piped up then. “You said you had to do something decent for Shay to make up for running into her house like an ape and not minding your goddamn manners this morning.” She adjusted her eye patch to dangle from her neck. “You said you’d have to bring her a big fucking fruit basket. You said fucking. I didn’t say fucking. It was you. But I think a big fucking fruit basket is dumb. No one wants a basket of fruit.”

Shay: The cute bartender said it’s Billy’s but also Woodchuckers. Shay: He says I can throw some axes if I want. He’ll set me up. Noah: Tell the cute bartender you’re married.

I wanted to gather her up and hold her close and promise to make everything better. I also wanted to wring her pretty little neck.

“How did you get here so fast?” She picked up her phone, peered at the time. “That was only fifteen minutes. Wait. Sixteen.” Because my wife was alone and upset in a strange bar and speed limits don’t apply in those situations.

“Allow me to make myself clear. I don’t give a pickled fuck how or why we came to be married. You are my wife. If you need some fun, you’ll call me. I’ll be the one taking care of you. I’ll give you anything you want, including a properly prepared gin and tonic. If you can’t accept that, you’re welcome to divorce me now.”

Shay: I’m home. Noah: Yes. It seems like you are.

And don’t start any fights.” “Those fuckers better not start any fights with me.” I pulled the cash back. “What was that?” “Nothing,” she muttered. “No fights.”

A beat passed before I glanced down at his hand and then up, finding his eyes. “You’ll have to let me go.” He swallowed. “I’d rather not.”

“Would you look at this?” He cocked his head to the side to stare at my underwear. I’d known they were soaked since getting out of the truck but without the insulation of my jeans, the damp spot felt like an ice cube against my flushed skin. “What’s this all about, wife?”

“Does this pussy taste as good as I imagine?” “I—I don’t know,” I admitted. He glanced up at me, the wicked glint in his eyes the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. “I’ll decide for myself.”

“What do I taste like?” He nuzzled into the crook of my shoulder and replied with a soft growl. “My wife.” “That’s not a taste.” “Mmm. It is now.”

“You were made for my cock. You were made to take it all. You’re going to take it bent over this bed, you’re going to take it on your belly and holding on to the headboard, and you are going to take it sitting on my lap while I lick those tits. And that’s just what I’m taking from this sweet little cunt tonight.”

We spun around to find her in the chicken coop, egg basket hooked on her elbow and eye patch in place. “Those people were noisy and they annoyed the shit out of me.” She snapped her fingers at one of the chickens. “Get away from me, dumbass.”

“You’re pouting and I can’t suck your nipples through this shirt right now because I don’t want to stop at your nipples and—oh my fucking god, I said that out loud.”

Are we going on a honeymoon? No, she barely wanted to go to the Harvest Festival with me. Interstate travel was a bridge too far.

Are we thinking about starting a family any time soon? Strictly rehearsals.

Are we so thrilled and over the moon to be together? Yeah, it was awesome to get everything I’d ever wanted only for my wife to remind me on a daily basis that it wa...

Thank god she didn’t know I was half hard and fully obsessed with her.

“Just because I can plow through by myself doesn’t mean I want to,” I said. “Fuck, Shay. Let me need you, okay?”

I glanced over my shoulder and shot her a sharp glare. “I’ve been inside you. I promise, you’re not dead.”

“Does it make me an idiot if I didn’t realize any of that until now?” “You’re not an idiot. You’re just accustomed to people failing you.”

“This is where you belong, Shay. This is the home and we are the family you’ve always wanted.”

“You belong here and you belong to me.”

I felt like I’d been waiting a very long time for someone who knew how to shatter me and also wanted to pick up all the pieces. And I felt an unpleasant sense of relief in discovering that person was my husband.

“Or I can close down the table and go with you. You’re worth more to me than half an hour of jam sales.” Shay batted her lashes. “Aww. I don’t think anyone has ever compared me to jam sales before.”

“I forced this. If I hadn’t shown up here with a problem only a fake marriage could solve, you never would’ve looked twice in my direction.” His fingers flexed on my neck. “That’s not true.”

“It makes sense now,” I said. “What’s that?” “All those times you said we were high school sweethearts.” “We were.” He shrugged and then immediately winced. “You just didn’t know it.”

“Tell me about Little Star.” An enormous sigh rattled out of him. “It’s you,” he whispered. “It had to be you.” “And those wonky stars?” “Yours,” he said.

“But you were in a rollover accident tonight and have multiple injuries. The only thing we’re doing in this bed is sleeping.” He scowled with his whole face. “Can I lick your tits and tell you I love you when I wake up tomorrow?” “I don’t see why not.”