“You’re not angry,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question.
I nod. “I’ve been going to therapy.”
Her eyebrows arch, and then she smiles. “I’m proud of you.”
As her smile fades, panic wells inside my chest. I need to see that smile again. I need to hear her voice again.
Say something. Do something. Make her see.
She’s air, she’s oxygen, she’s food and water and everything I need to live. My heart starts thumping, and I turn my head away to try to compose myself. Closing my eyes and inhaling the scent of the flowers, I gather my courage to say the words I still haven’t said to her.
“I’m sorry, Jolie. I was wrong to react like I did when I saw the book in your cottage. You have every right to be mad at me until the end of time, but just know that I’m trying to change. I’m going to therapy. I’m trying to be better. I am better”
I’m doing it for you. All for you. Because I love you now and forever, and I’d do anything to have you again. I love you. I love you. I love you.
The words stay stuck somewhere in my esophagus.
Jolie’s throat bobs as she swallows, and she turns her eyes to the baby. Our baby.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’m sorry I brought the book back to Westhill.” She takes a deep breath, and lifts her eyes to me. “You want to hold him?”
Holy mother of Farcliff, I think my heart just exploded. I can’t speak, I just nod. She transfers the baby into my arms, and all my organs melt. Thorne wraps his tiny little fingers around my thumb and babbles happily at me. I lean down and kiss his forehead, just brushing my lips over his soft skin. He smells like only babies do, and I kiss his skin again.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until Jo brushes a tear away.
She smiles. “I called him Thorne. I hope you don’t mind.”
“He’s perfect.”
Jo snorts. “Maybe he’ll be perfect when he sleeps through the night.”
We sit in silence for a while, and I just stare at my son. My perfect, tiny, glorious son.
“Jo,” I whisper, my eyes still glued to Thorne’s round face.
“What?”
“I can’t let you go.” I’m still whispering, still not looking at her. “I’ll do anything. Counselling, therapy, I’ll get a lobotomy if I need to. I can’t live without you.”
Finally, I lift my eyes to hers. Her brows are drawn together, and I can see the pulse thundering in her neck.
“Gabe…”
I exhale, relishing the sound of my name on her tongue. “Don’t say no. Please, please don’t say no. I can change. I have changed. I want to be a father to our son—a husband to you, if you’ll let me. I want you in my life, in my bed, under my skin. I’ll let you rip my fingernails off with rusty pliers if it means I get to spend the day with you.”
Instead of jumping into my embrace, Jolie’s lip starts trembling. She reaches for Thorne, taking him out of my arms. My heart starts to thump violently in my chest. I’m losing her all over again. I can see it in her face that she doesn’t want me. Maybe she never wanted me. She doesn’t think I can change.
I open my mouth to say something—but I’m interrupted by the snap of a camera shutter.
37
Jo
It takes me a couple of seconds to recognize the woman cat walking up the path. Her long, sleek, black hair shines in the sunlight and a cruel smile twists her lips.
Paulette.
I frown, clutching my baby to my chest. Gabriel puts his hand on my thigh protectively, and, damnit, I love his touch.
I was just about to tell him that I can’t be with him. I just can’t. He’s too violent. Too angry. He’s a pile of gunpowder, and the world is a match. Anything will set him off. Thorne and I can’t be there when it happens.
His ex-girlfriend sashays her way up the path, with a row of paparazzi trailing after her.
Bodyguards materialize on either side of Gabriel and me, but he holds up a hand. They stop in their tracks.
“Well, well, well,” Paulette says, angling her face toward the cameras. “If it isn’t Prince Gabriel and his new baby mama. Are you going to steal her baby away, too?”
Gabriel’s hand tightens on my thigh. That’s it—this is the match. Paulette is striking it on her curvy, perfect body, flicking it toward the bomb beside me.
Tick, tick, tick.
I wait for him to explode.
Instead, his grip on my thigh loosens. I bounce my baby in my arms, eyes scanning the people around me warily. Gabriel’s hand sends waves of calm through me.
Paulette arches a thin eyebrow. “Well? It would make a great epilogue to my new book.”
“New book?” Gabriel’s voice is a razor blade slicing through the air.
Tick, tick, tick.
“It releases next month,” she proclaims to the cameras. “It’s called ‘Surviving Prince Gabriel’. Maybe you could write the introduction,” Paulette says to me.
I brace myself for detonation. I know Gabriel. To his core, I know him, and I know that this is the end. The big boom. The snap that breaks him in half, and ends up with me and Thorne as nothing more than collateral damage.
But it never happens.
Instead, Gabriel puts his arm around my shoulders, lifting his other hand to shield our baby from the cameras.
“Your words have no power over me, Paulette. Not anymore. Do whatever you need to do to survive—even if it means spreading lies about me.” His voice is even, calm, and soothing.
Paulette’s eyes narrow, and she cocks her hip to the side. “It’ll be bigger than my first book,” she threatens.
“Sequels are never as good,” Gabriel says. I look over to see his lip tugging up at the corner.
I repeat: His lip. Tugging up. At the corner.
He’s smiling.
Not exploding. Not tearing down rose bushes and scaring my baby. Not being violent or menacing. Not covered in blood.
He’s smiling at the woman who ruined his life.
Gabriel waves a hand, and his bodyguards descend upon the paparazzi. They usher them out of the garden, and suddenly we’re alone again. I realize I’m trembling, so I put Thorne back in his stroller. I grip onto the edge of it, sucking in a deep breath.
Finally, I look over at Gabriel. With a shaking hand, I slide my fingers over his scar. I feel the smooth skin, slicing up toward his ear.
It’s cool to the touch. He leans into my hand, letting out a soft growl. Gabriel leans into me, resting his forehead against mine.
“What do you say, Jolie? Will you give me another chance?”
Instead of answering, I angle my lips against his. I kiss him, softly at first, until his tongue swipes at the seam of my mouth and I let him in. His hands crawl up my legs, gripping my hips, my waist, tangling into my hair. He inhales, moaning softly as we kiss each other.
My fingers curl into his shirt and I pull him close. Tears slide down my cheeks as I let myself give in to love, to lust, to need, to want.
To him.
I keep one hand on the stroller while the other one claws at Gabriel. He scoops me onto his lap, crushing his lips against mine. He holds me there, and I cry and laugh in his arms.
When we come up for air, I lean my forehead against his. Tears soak my cheeks. He brushes them away with a soft finger.
“Don’t cry, Jo.”
“I love you,” I whisper. “I love you so much it hurts to breathe.”
“The past year has been torture without you.” His voice is breathy and raw. “I felt like tearing my own heart out of my chest, but you’d already taken it with you when you left. I can’t live without you, Jo. Never. Not again. Not one day. Not one hour.”
“Not one hour?” I pull away, tilting my head. “Bit psycho, no?”
He laughs, kissing my tears away. “Okay, as many hours and days as you want, as long as you promise that I’m yours, and you’re mine.”
His lips find mine again, and he kisses my
pain away. I wrap my hands to the nape of his neck, staring into his bright, blue eyes.
“I’m yours, and you’re mine,” I repeat, brushing my lips against his. I rest my head against his chest, and watch as Gabriel reaches into the stroller. Thorne wraps his hand around his father’s thumb, and I let out one last sigh. I exhale all the hurt that I’ve held onto for so, so long, and I melt into Gabriel’s arms.
Epilogue
Jo
Gabriel and I are married on a Saturday in the new Royal Rose Garden at Westhill. We have temporary staff brought in, because I insist in having our usual staff attend the wedding as guests. Sam is my maid of honor, and she cries during the entire ceremony. Mrs. Grey is a bridesmaid, and to her credit, she only starts crying after the ceremony.
When I walk—or waddle—down the aisle, I’m already eight months pregnant with our second baby. Gabriel beams, leaning over to kiss my belly before straightening up for the ceremony.
The wedding is quick, mostly because my feet hurt and I can’t stand for too long. Gabriel stays by my side all day, and we mostly just stare at each other. It’s sickening—and perfect.
Flora is still small for her age but quickly showing how much of a genius she is. Since her bad infection two years ago, she hasn’t had to be at the hospital a single time. Managing her illness takes time and patience, but she does it with remarkable bravery.
I end up writing three more novels inspired by her, and all of them have gone on to find commercial success. Since I no longer need the money, I donate all the proceeds to a cystic fibrosis organization in Flora’s name.
Thorne is sixteen months old when Gabriel and I get married, and he spends the wedding day being bounced on my mother’s knee. He’s a happy kid, talkative and active, and when he gets a little older, I discover he’s not at all interested in reading.
We had him tested for cystic fibrosis as an infant and were relieved to find out he didn’t have it. I got a blood test and found I wasn’t a carrier, and Gabriel let out a big sigh of relief, knowing that any other children we have wouldn’t be at risk of having the illness.
Gabriel continues therapy, but decreases from daily appointments to one a week, and then once a month. He starts visiting Farcliff more often, but we spend most of our time in Westhill. I think it’s the solitude and serenity that keeps us out here—or maybe it’s the annual Westhill Town Fair.
Whatever it is, we try to balance family with everything else in our life. Thorne and Flora, and our youngest, Gabriela, spend lots of times with their cousins in Farcliff Castle. I want them to grow up with no fear of the capital, and with a healthy attitude toward being in the public eye.
The rose garden soon outgrows the community space where I first planted it, and soon becomes a vibrant tourist attraction for the sleepy town. Gabriel also sets up an art gallery in Westhill, and holds a yearly charity fundraiser. He sells his sketches. It grows in popularity every year, and I think he reluctantly accepts the praise that his drawings generate. He sticks to charcoal as his preferred medium, and most of the time he’s drawing me, or the kids, or roses.
My parents move back into the Gardener’s Cottage and take care of the roses—both the ones at the castle and the ones in Westhill.
We get four good years together before my father’s cancer comes back. When I start to cry, he smiles at me and shakes his head. “I had four more years with you since the last time. I saw you married. I got to meet my grandchildren. No tears. I’m one of the lucky ones.”
I snort and cry in his arms, and he pats my head like a child. When he passes away, I vow to plant a rose bush in his honor every year—even if it means all of Westhill is covered in them.
As for Gabriel and me—we live as happily ever after as is possible, given the constraints of real life. Sometimes we’re sad, and sometimes we argue, but we’re never truly angry. Never volatile. Never violent.
He kisses me every chance he gets, and still makes my stomach clench when he runs his hands over my body. He calls me the love of his life, and every day, he kisses me like we’re lying in a bed of wildflowers again.
I realize that my love for him isn’t a wild animal or a wound that never cauterizes—it’s more of a weed that just won’t go away. It grows and grows until I’m overrun, and I finally just accept that my heart belongs to him, always and forever.
* * *
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Knocked Up by the CEO
Knocked Up Series: Book 1
1
Harper
“Coming through!” I call out, balancing a tray of cookies in one hand and a jug of eggnog in the other. I can smell the boozy scent of rum coming off the eggnog and I know it’ll be a big hit this year. My coworkers move out of the way as I crouch down towards the table and slide the tray off my hand onto the table in a smooth motion. The tablecloth is covered the cartoonish drawings of snowmen and snow flakes, with tinsel strewn under the trays of food. The whole office looks like the inside of a Christmas store. I place the jug of eggnog beside the cookies and stand up, putting my hands on my hips and turning around.
“That should be it,” I breathe, pulling the hem of my sweater down. It’s the ugliest and most amazing sweater I’ve ever seen, a wooly red monstrosity with flashing LED lights all over the front in the shape of a Christmas tree. Perfect for the office Christmas party.
“Well done, Harper! The place looks amazing,” Rosie says as she walks up beside me. She’s wearing her regular work clothes. In fact, no one except me is dressed up, but I don’t mind. Rosie smiles and raises the plastic wine glass towards me. I grab a glass of my own from the dozens lined up on the table and lift it up it towards Rosie.
“I can finally start enjoying myself now,” I grin back. We clink our glasses and I take my first sip of wine of the evening. “It’s always so much work putting this party together.”
“But it’s always worth it,” Rosie replies. “Think of all the gossip that comes out of it every year!”
She grins mischievously and takes another sip of wine, scanning the room over the rim of her glass. I laugh and nod. She’s right, it’s usually fodder for at least a couple months of water cooler chat. I’ve been in charge of the office Christmas party for the last three years, and they’ve gotten wilder as time has gone on. I’m sure this year will be the same.
“Nice sweatshirt!”
I try not to cringe as the screechy voice reaches my ears. The back of my neck prickles with that same uncomfortable feeling I get every time I hear his voice. I already know it’s Greg from accounting. I turn around slowly and there he is, grinning at me with his toothy, slimy smile. I nod, trying not to stare at the stains on his tie or the greasy hair plastered to his forehead.
“Thanks,” I respond curtly.
“You like Christmas, hey?”
“No, not really, I just do this so I can drink at the office.”
He throws his head back and laughs before shuffling closer, his baggy pants and too-tight shirt sliding in beside me. I inch away as he gets closer. He smells like wet socks.
“Haven’t seen you around the accounts department lately,” he says to me. I try to avoid his stare and glance at Rosie. She’s got her nose buried in her glass of wine.
“I got promoted a year ago, Greg. I don’t work in accounts anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course, but you know, I thought you’d still come around and say hello to me—to the team. I thought we meant something to you!”
He smiles at me and I resist the urge to shudder. I would rather come across as a cold-hearted snobby executive bitch than to willingly spend time with you, after all the torture you put me through! Greg glances at Rosie and his smile disappears immediately. He almost s
narls at her and I grab her arm and point over to the other side of the room.
“Oh, look, it looks like those decorations need to be adjusted. Excuse me.”
“I’ll help!” Rosie says. The two of us speed away towards the huge tree I rented for the party.
“Is he still following you around? I thought you’d made a complaint.”
I sigh. “I did, he got a warning from HR and avoided me for a while but it looks like he’s plucked up the courage to talk to me again. Might be the booze.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do? He followed you to your house! Multiple times!”
“Don’t remind me,” I say, glancing at her sideways. I push the thought away, not wanting to go back to those months last year when I was constantly looking over my shoulder. I didn’t even know it was Greg until weeks after the whole thing started. I spent weeks and weeks with that same prickly feeling at the back of my neck, feeling like I was being followed and thinking I was going insane.
The promotion to Commercial Director came with a healthy pay raise and the condition that my complaint about Greg would be satisfied when he got a warning. I never understood why the Human Resources department didn’t take me more seriously, but at the end of the day not many women make it to the Director-level at a top advertising firm at my age. I weighed my options and for the most part, it was worth it. I hardly have to see him anyways.
Rosie and I get to the Christmas tree and look at all 16 feet of it. The top of it grazes the ceiling.
“So what do you want us to adjust? I think Greg is still looking over here,” Rosie asks, looking at the massive tree. It was almost too big to fit in the door. I had to beg and plead to get approval for it, saying that it wasn’t a Christmas party without a tree. It’s impeccably decorated and I already know that nothing needs to be adjusted.
Knocked Up by Prince Gallant Page 21
