Be My Hero (Forbidden Men 3)

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 actuall

y 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 . . . fuck, 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?"

"That's us." I smiled at her as I got to my feet, keeping a happily drinking Julian cradled in the crook of my arm.

"Aww," she said, smiling my way. "There's nothing more precious than watching a handsome young man taking care of a baby."

As I sent the old gal a flirty little wink, Tristy snorted and plowed past her into the judge's chambers.

Irritated that she hadn't gotten the carrier and diaper bag while my hands were full, I gritted my teeth. "Thanks, honey," I was tempted to call after her. But I sucked it up and tucked Julian back into his car seat, tried to prop the bottle into his mouth so he could keep eating and slung the bag strap over my shoulder before picking up the carrier.

Then I followed the sweet old gal into the small room, where Tristy and I got married.

It was over and done about as soon as it started. Afterward, my stomach churned miserably. Ever since that damn glimpse, or whatever the hell it'd been, I'd always thought of marriage as forever, as love, and happily ever after, sacred and binding. But this had been none of that.

It left me empty and restless. Trapped.

Tristy and I didn't even talk to each other as I dropped her and her son back off at the apartment before I returned to work at the garage. When five o'clock came around, I stamped my time card and drove home, only to find her sitting on the couch, typing away on the laptop I'd gotten her. An afternoon talk show played on the television, barely muting Julian, who fussed in the swing.

I pulled him out and found his diaper almost leaking through it was so full. After carrying him back to my room, I changed him and plunked him onto my hip so he could join me in the kitchen where I whipped up a quick supper.

"I'm making a sandwich," I called over my shoulder while Julian slobbered all over my grease-stained pinstripe shirt and happily pounded his chubby fists against my chest. "You want one?"