Be My Hero (Forbidden Men #3)(13)

I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been inside a woman, how long ago it had been or even with whom, so of course my mind brought up an image I never forgot. And it was as if I was still fourteen, being fed the glimpse by that old witch. I saw unique blue eyes first, then her blonde hair, her smile, the hint of lilac.

A sigh eased from my lungs.

My Tinker Bell.

But thinking about her—whoever she was—only made my chest ache. If Madam LeFrey were still alive, I'd look that woman up and cuss her out. It'd been ten years, and she still had me dreaming about those goddamn glimpses. Ten years, and I still wanted Tinker Bell to be a real person I could really meet. Ten f*cking years, and I still thought my happily ever after might come true.

Fucking bullshit.

Wishing Madam LeFrey were toasting in a nice fiery pit in hell right about now, I opened my eyes when a small whimper came from the floor between me and Tristy. The car seat began to sway as the baby inside woke, thrashing his arms and legs.

Tristy moaned and sent the kid a glare. "God . . . damn it. He just went to sleep. Why can't he just stay the f*ck asleep for ten full minutes?"

I scowled at her before leaning forward. "I got him." She didn't attempt to stop me as I pushed the handle out of the way and unbuckled him from his carrier. When he looked up at me and kicked his legs as if glad to see me, I couldn't stop a smile. "Hey there, Fighter. You have a good nap?"

Tristy snorted. "Like he's going to answer you."

I ignored her and focused on cradling the three-month old to my chest. He rooted around at my shirt as if he were seeking something to eat, which was strange. Tristy sure as hell had never breastfed him. I have no idea how the kid even knew he could get food there.

I chuckled and stroked my hand over dark curls. "You hungry, little man?"

Thank God Tristy didn't berate me again for asking him a question as I bent forward and dug inside the diaper bag to find the bottle I'd put in there before we'd left the apartment. I probably would've snapped something rude back at her, and grooms really shouldn't snap at their brides, especially on their wedding day.

But she was definitely in a mood. I had no idea what had gotten her so pissy. Maybe all women went through a grouchy stage right before they got hitched. Not that there was going to be anything conventional about the piece of paper we were about to sign, legally binding us together.

With a baby who required regular medical check-ups, Tristy needed insurance. She hadn't passed governmental approval for the free stuff, and since my boss at the garage where I worked during the day had recently signed me up for a nice insurance plan, one I could put Tristy and her little man on—if we were husband and wife—I'd come up with the idea to marry her.

I knew it was in name only and not a real marriage. Tristy wouldn't care if I went on a date with someone else. But that didn't seem fair to whomever I might go on a date with.

I could already imagine how it'd play out. Shh, baby, we gotta keep your orgasm quiet. Don't want to wake my wife in the next room. Or her kid. Yeah, that was not going to happen.

Besides, in the eyes of the law, this was the real deal, so I had decided I'd be celibate until she finally got her life back on track and we could annul things amicably. It was anyone's guess when that would happen, but she'd been staying clean and doing well since she'd given birth. Hopefully a couple months, half a year, and she could get out on her own.

Aside from my dick going cold turkey, the marriage thing wouldn't change too much else in my life. I'd already been letting her crash in my guest room since she'd been three months pregnant when she showed up on my doorstep crying and destitute. So the only thing that would really change was her last name, my insurance plan, and yeah . . . my very pissed off penis.

Tristy had actually gotten pregnant two times before. The first two had ended up in miscarriages because she hadn't been willing enough to clean herself up. But this time, I'd had enough. I'd watched her like a hawk to keep her off drugs while she was carrying, and she'd only had a couple setbacks. Surprisingly, the third time was a charm. This baby made it, and now he was already three months old.

I called him my little fighter.

I needed to call him something because it pissed me off that Tristy had named him Julian. She'd liked the name ever since I'd gotten it tattooed on my chest years ago, right alongside the names Skylar, Chloe, and Tinker Bell. Though honestly, I don't know why it mattered what she named her kid. I was never going to meet Tinker Bell, so our three children together were never going to exist.

If Tristy wanted to steal my baby's name . . . whatever. It didn't matter.

At least, I didn't want it to, which was probably why it bothered the hell out of me so much.

And why did I keep thinking about Tinker Bell and our non-existent future together?

Probably because I was about to get married—even if it was just a marriage of convenience—and she was the only person I'd ever imagined as my wife. I wanted to stop thinking about her. I wanted to stop feeling guilty as if I was betraying her for helping out a friend. I wanted . . . f*ck, I wanted her to walk through the door this very second so she could sweep me away to happily ever after, and I could leave this shitty life behind.

But the only woman who poked her head through the doorway was a short, plump, gray-headed clerk who said, "Ryan?"