Forever Wild (The Simple Wild #2.5) - K.A. Tucker Page 0,21

snow, anyway? Better than Calla’s Jeep, I’m guessing?”

My head falls back with a groan.

“What’s wrong with Calla’s Jeep?” My mother frowns at it.

“Nothing is wrong with it. He wants me in a tank.” I shoot an exasperated look at Jonah. He’s relentless.

“At least you wouldn’t be able to drive too fast in that.” He smirks on his way past me and up the path, effortlessly carrying the two cases by the handles, one in each hand.

“My future son-in-law certainly is strong,” Mom murmurs, appreciation in her voice.

Simon grunts as he struggles to heave the last suitcase out of the SUV. “Obviously, he took the much lighter ones.”

I wake to a grating sound, followed by silence, and then again that noisy rattle for another moment before more silence. I smile. Simon is attempting to grind fresh coffee beans without disturbing the entire household. It’s what he does whenever he forgets to prepare them the night before.

I’m eager to get to the kitchen and enjoy my first Simon-served latte in a year. I’ve been anticipating this moment for months.

Beside me, Jonah stirs momentarily at the pulsing sound but then settles again. It’s almost nine a.m. He’s always up by now, stoking the fire and checking the weather reports for the day. But I guess the last week of poor sleep in anticipation of everyone’s arrival has finally caught up to him.

The nightstand clock casts just enough light that I can make out the lines of his handsome face, peacefully boyish in sleep. I study it now, though I’ve long since memorized every detail of it—the mannish cut of his jawline, the curve of the scar across his forehead, the new scar above his eyebrow, the long fringe of lashes a shade darker than his ash-blond hair, the crinkle lines at the corners of his eyes that seem more prominent now than they were when we first met. They only add to his attractiveness.

What will Jonah look like in five? Ten? Twenty years from now?

Still handsome, I’m sure. Probably more so, regardless of the wrinkles and scars that he’ll earn, chasing children on the ground and miles in the air.

“I can feel you staring at me,” Jonah suddenly croaks, a second before his eyelid cracks open. “Why are you staring at me?”

“Because you’re so pretty.”

With a deep groan, he shifts to climb on top of me, fitting his body between my thighs. One hand reaches down to tug my pajama bottoms off.

“Simon is right below us!” I whisper harshly. They probably all are. They’re all suffering from jet lag.

“Then don’t scream like you usually do.” Jonah slides off his boxer briefs. His skin is hot against mine as he pushes inside me without any foreplay. Neither of us seems to need it this morning, though.

The bed creaks noisily as his hips begin moving.

“Shhh!” I scold, but I can’t help the giggle that escapes.

Jonah thrusts harder in answer, and I press my mouth against his shoulder to muffle my moan.

Below us, the coffee grinder whirrs. This time, it keeps going.

The sun has crested the horizon and is pouring through our bay window, casting our house in a warm morning glow, when I reach the landing—well over an hour later than I intended when I first woke up.

“… I always recommend ranunculus and peonies. They’re timeless.”

“Hmm. Yes, you are right. Those are lovely.”

Mom and Astrid are sitting side by side at the kitchen counter, surrounded by a medley of scattered wedding magazines. They’re both dressed for the day, Astrid in a crisp white button-down top and jeans, my mother in a stylish cranberry-colored cable-knit sweater and black leggings. While I wouldn’t call them opposites, Astrid has a much more simplistic style.

“Oh, good morning, honey! Hope you slept well,” Mom offers, sharing a secretive, amused look with Astrid from above the rim of her latest reading glasses—she updates her frames each spring—before refocusing on her magazine.

My cheeks flush. At least they seem to be getting along. “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day.”

“Indeed it does!” Simon echoes, pausing momentarily in his task at the stove to flash me a smile. “Give me a sec and I’ll whip you up a latte.”

I frown. “You sure you can manage it?” I can’t remember the last time I saw Simon cook anything beyond instant mashed potatoes. Yet, every burner is occupied with a pan or pot, the smell of bacon permeating the air. He’s even donned one of my Christmas aprons over his standard sweater-vest-and-slacks outfit.

“Of course!