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Which is not a sentence I ever expected to think.

Maverick settles against the headboard with Shiloh tucked beneath one arm. I sit on the other side of him, my legs folded beneath me, trying not to notice how much space my husband takes up.

It’s impossible.

His thigh is practically touching mine.

His shoulder is definitely touching mine.

And every time he shifts, I catch a whiff of something clean and masculine that makes me want to lean closer. Makes me want to bury my nose in his neck and just breathe him in.

Which would be a terrible idea. Because we’re married. But not married married. I evidently need to keep reminding myself of that fact because my body keeps forgetting. So my husband is super hot. That’s not a big deal.

I focus on the book. It’s about a bear who can’t find his Christmas hat. A riveting mystery. I’m doing my best impression of the bear when Shiloh interrupts me.

“Daddy doesn’t do the voices right.”

I glance over his head at Maverick.

“Really?”

Maverick narrows his eyes.

“I do the voices.”

“Not good,” Shiloh informs him.

I press my lips together.

Maverick looks offended.

“I’ve been reading to you for four years, and you’ve never complained.”

“Noelle does them better,” Shiloh says.

Maverick’s gaze shifts to mine. Oh, goodness. That is a very effective glare. I can see how he probably gets his way in boardrooms. Probably gets his way in any room, now that I think about it.

Unfortunately for him, I was raised by a woman who once stared down an entire church committee over the correct recipe for potato salad. I’m not easily intimidated. Even by a man who looks like he could pick me up with one hand. Which is saying something because I’m no petite waif of a woman. I might be less than average of height, but I more than make up for it with my abundant curves.

Not that I’m thinking about him picking me up. Because I’m not. Mostly.

“Keep reading,” he says.

I smile sweetly.

“Yes, sir.”

Something flickers across his face.

Shiloh snuggles closer, his warm little body wedged between us, and I finish the story.

It’s strange how natural this feels.

Not the part where I’m sitting next to a giant, gorgeous man who is technically my husband. That part is extremely unnatural.

But this. Shiloh. The bedtime routine. The way he reaches for me without thinking. The way he expects me to know which stuffed dinosaur he needs tonight, because there are three of them and apparently they serve different purposes.

I’ve been here less than a month.