Free Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) by Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie Page B

he doesn’t?” Willow wonders.
    Lo snaps, “Then maybe he didn’t love you like you thought.”
    “Fuck him,” Ryke adds.
    I interject, “Let’s all remember that we like Garrison.” Ryke and Lo look murderous at these plausible scenarios where Garrison breaks their sister’s heart.
    Willow pops her head back into the camera view. “Thanks, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up anything that’d make you guys uncomfortable.”
    Lo and Ryke start laughing, and Lo is the first to say, “Like that’s possible.”
    I’ve heard many, many stories before I entered the picture. Back when we weren’t famous. Like the time where Ryke just stood there while Lo had his hand halfway down Lily’s pants. He tried to run Ryke off, but Ryke isn’t easy to scare or make uncomfortable.
    Before Willow and I sign off, she says to me, “Tomorrow, same time?”
    “Yep. I’ll be at my house with the special guest star Sullivan Minnie Meadows.”
    Willow smiles. “See ya.”
    I shut my computer while Lo orders the “special burrito” and Ryke runs his hand through my hair. I set my chin on his arm with a growing smile.

[ 7 ]
    October 2018
    The Cobalt Estate
    Philadelphia
     
    ROSE COBALT
    This is a battle I plan to lose.
    I take a hearty swig of sparkling water from my wine glass. Then I eye the chessboard, set on our king-sized bed, the pale blue, satin comforter beneath.
    Move your rook in his line of fire, Rose. Abandon your cavalry.
    Losing on purpose is fucking painful. I finish off my sparkling water with another angered gulp and avoid my husband’s sagacious blue gaze. While bathing Charlie and Beckett this morning, he used that adjective on himself. I could fault Connor for his ego, but his self-description isn’t entirely inaccurate.
    He’s frighteningly perceptive of his surroundings and me without seeming overly watchful.
    Take this moment for instance. Instead of wearing my usual black negligee or chemise to bed, I chose one of his button-downs. The hem stops at my thighs, and my breasts push against the white fabric, two buttons popped. Connor has yet to mention my choice of nightwear, and I never catch him ogling me from head-to-toe. But I’m certain he’s mentally jotted this down: What is Rose up to?
    I’m not about to simply tell him. I’ll only be spoon-feeding my infant children, thank you.
    I try to take another sip of water, but my glass is empty.
    My husband reaches over and drains a quarter of his sparkling water into my glass. Since I’ve been trying to get pregnant, Connor has kindly joined me on my “no wine” voyage. It’s hell, but a hell I’d endure again and again to bring a little gremlin into the world.
    Avoid his eyes.
    I do.
    And then he says, “You’re nervous.”
    I glare right at his stature and composure, at his unwavering confidence. “I’m thinking about how to defeat you.” I am thinking, but more so about how to hand him a win.
    Without breaking eye contact, he takes a sip from his wine glass.
    He knows.
    No he doesn’t. He can’t know that I broke an enormous promise out of impulse. All day, I’ve been trying to figure out how to subtly explain what I’ve done, but I keep choking on my own betrayal. I’d slam a door in his face if he did what I did.
    I inhale a tightened breath and finish off the sparkling water again, even the little drop that rolls slowly into my mouth. He doesn’t know.
    Both of us in the middle of the bed, my legs are splayed to the side. His elbow is propped casually on his bent knee, just dressed in gray drawstring pants. While his abs aren’t horrible to look at, I actually lose focus by the two baby monitors next to him. On the screens, I can see Jane in her toddler bed and Beckett and Charlie in their cribs, our children sound asleep by 8:00 p.m. in their rooms.
    “Do we need to put a time limit on moves?” Connor asks me. “Thinking shouldn’t take you this long. For other people, yes, but for you and me?” He arches a