Chapter 23
QUINN
My period was unpredictable and didn’t like to be confined to any kind of schedule, but when it hit, it hit with a vengeance.
That wasn’t true for everyone who suffered from PCOS—that was part of what made it so hard to diagnose…
no two women’s experiences were the same—but it was my reality and had been since I was eleven years old.
In the past twenty years, I’d learned how to manage it.
But managing it was about as good as it got.
Thankfully, Day One hit on a Saturday, so I wasn’t needed at the clinic, and by some kind of miracle, Ford was working a twenty-four at the fire station, so I could turtle away without worrying about anyone else.
We’d been married for a little over a month, but since this was the first period I’d had since living with him, I didn’t know what to expect.
In my experience, men were either clueless, dismissive, or—worst of all—disgusted by women’s bodies and the shit we dealt with.
I wasn’t sure I could handle if Ford was any of those, but especially the latter two.
Though maybe that would be better. Maybe if he was a jackass about something like this, that would help siphon off some of this…affection…I’d been feeling toward him.
Maybe that would help me stop falling for my husband.
But I was beginning to wonder if it was a losing endeavor. Between the sex and the laughs, the ease we felt when we were around each other, I was in over my head. More so than I’d intended. More so than I ever expected. And I had no idea where to go from here.
I’d spent yesterday curled in bed, bingeing Emily in Paris , and drugging myself with enough ibuprofen to kill a horse.
Day Two generally wasn’t much better, but I needed to put on a brave face and downplay how I was feeling because Ford would be home any time.
I doubted he’d even considered this aspect of marriage when he agreed to be my fake husband, and who knew how he’d react to it.
Ford was a sexual guy, and since that night of the Blueberry Fest, we hadn’t gone more than thirty-six hours without some form of sex.
And only that long on the days he was scheduled at the station.
When he was working, he’d fill his downtime by sexting me in preparation for pouncing as soon as he walked through the door.
Usually, I loved it. I’d never been wanted like this in my life, so I loved knowing that he was thinking about me while he was gone. Loved knowing that he couldn’t wait to be with me again.
He’d tried the same yesterday, but I’d shut him down and warned him my pussy was a no-go zone right now. He might have been able to talk me into sex on day five or six, but on day one or two? Not even his magic peen could get me to succumb.
I was in the middle of season three of Emily’s exploits when the front door opened, and in walked Ford, carrying half a dozen bags.
He sought me out immediately, his gaze running over me from head to toe, as if he could see beyond the piles of blankets I was burrowed under in our bed to verify I was okay.
“How’re you feeling, wife?” he asked, dropping off the bags in the kitchen before walking into the bedroom. He braced his hands on either side of me and pressed a soft kiss to my temple.
“I’m okay,” I said, lying through my teeth.
He made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. “Well, my beautiful little liar, your husband is finally home, and he brought reinforcements.”
“You didn’t need to get anything. I’m good.”
“Are you kidding? This is my job.” He strode into the kitchen, heading straight for the bags. “Actually, I was slacking. I should’ve had this shit already in the house.”
I sat up in bed and leaned against the headboard enough so I could see straight to where he stood.
He unloaded the bags onto the counter, and my brows rose with each item he pulled out.
Jesus, when he said he brought reinforcements, he wasn’t lying.
Chocolate bars and truffles, potato chips, crackers, ice cream, popcorn, wine, pineapple juice…
It looked like Main Street Market threw up in our kitchen.
“I wasn’t sure if you usually craved salty or sweet, so I got both.
I grabbed some chamomile tea, too, because I read that helps with cramps.
I didn’t read anything about pineapple juice helping, but it’s your favorite, so it can’t hurt, right?
Same with the wine.” He shot me a grin over his shoulder and went back to unloading.
“And I didn’t know if you wanted to just Netflix and actually chill or if you were bored with that, so I asked Everly for a couple of her favorite books.
They’re all romance, but if you’re feeling stabby instead, I can swing by Brady’s and pick up some true crime.
The guy loves that shit. You can read them and I’ll leave you alone, or I’ll read them to you—whatever sounds good to you, kitten, okay? ”
Thank God he wasn’t actually waiting for an answer, because I could only stare at him, slack-jawed, as he continued pulling item after item out of the bags.
“The tricky part were the supplies. Holy fuck, I felt like I needed a goddamn PhD in tampons just to pick the right ones. I didn’t know if you were feeling sporty today, and they didn’t have anything for lounging—I honestly didn’t even know they based them on your activity level—so I just got a few different variety packs in case you have a favorite.
They also had this weird measuring cup-looking thing that said it was good for heavy flows, so I grabbed one of those, too. ”
The items were never-ending as he pulled one after another out of the bags—four different packs of tampons, two packages of pads, a box of pantyliners, and a menstrual cup—and I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I crawled out of bed and shuffled my way toward him, needing to be close to him.
Needing to squeeze him and tell him how much I appreciated this.
No one—and I mean no one…not even my mom—had ever done anything like this for me.
When I’d first gotten my period, she’d tossed me a package of pads, and I was on my own from then on.
In my years in the medical field—and, hell, just as a woman—I’d come to learn how uncomfortable people were with women’s bodies.
Most couldn’t discuss any part of a woman’s cycle without getting squeamish, and here Ford was, buying out the whole damn aisle just because.
Because I’d told him I was on my period so he wouldn’t come home expecting sex.
I’d spent my life learning over and over again that I was the only one I could count on.
I was an island—by choice or by design, it didn’t really matter.
But in my short time with Ford, it had started to feel a little like maybe I wasn’t so alone.
Like maybe I could count on someone else once in a while.
“I didn’t have a heating pad here, so I picked up one of those, too,” he said. “And I read that these new patches can help with cramps, and they got really good reviews. I’m not sure if it’ll work with your PCOS, but I figured it was worth a try. This article I was reading said—”
I wrapped my arms around him from behind, pressed my face into his back, and breathed him in.
This man… God . If you’d have told me four months ago that my rival would be buying me tampons and tucking me into bed with a chocolate bar when I had my period, I’d have said you were out of your mind. And yet, here we were.
“Why are you out of bed?” he asked, turning in my arms until he could wrap his around me. “I was going to bring in whatever you wanted.”
“Thank you,” I murmured into his chest.
“For what?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused, and that just made me adore him more.
“This.” I tipped my head back to look up at him.
I was a mess. I wasn’t wearing makeup, my hair was half out of the ponytail I’d put it in that morning, and I was wearing one of his sweatshirts I’d stolen and a pair of pajama pants that had seen better days.
But with the way he was looking down at me, brushing the loose hair from my face and holding me like I was…
special, it was obvious he didn’t care how messy—how imperfect—I was. “All of it. Just…thank you.”
He pressed his lips to my forehead and squeezed me tight, then he pulled away and smacked my ass. “All right. Back to bed, kitten. I’ll be there in five for a cuddle party. And I’ll bring the goods.”
* * *
It’d only been a few hours, but I could say with absolute certainty that Netflix and actual chill—aka cuddle parties—with Ford was pretty much the best thing ever.
We’d worked our way through season one of The Good Place , and I wasn’t sure there was anything better than Ford chuckling into my neck, his chest rumbling against my back as he laughed.
How the hell had we gotten here? What had begun as a farce was starting to feel all too real. And I…didn’t hate it.
He sat against the headboard, his legs spread for me to settle between them. And all the while, he alternated between running his fingers through my hair and lightly tracing them over any exposed skin until I was basically a puddle in his lap.
“My mom used to do this when I was little,” he said against the top of my head as he ran gentle fingers down my arm.
I shifted, tipping my head back to look up at him. He rarely talked about his mom—or his dad, actually—so he had my full attention. “She did?”
“Yep. Whenever we were sick.” He laughed under his breath. “Sometimes I’d fake it just to have her tickle me. I’m pretty sure she was onto me, but she did it anyway.”
I grinned, thinking of a sneaky little Ford trying to get more of his mom’s attention. “That’s sweet. I think I probably would’ve faked it, too. In fact, I might pretend to have my period again just for this.”
“Maybe we can work out a swap. BJ for a tickle?”