by Amy Redwood
Jack was there, looking out of place at the beach. He’d taken to Trent so quickly that she’d wondered if she’d missed some secret conversation between them. But Jack had stopped interfering with her life. Or maybe it was the distance to New York that held him at bay, she’d never know.
She smiled, hearing the angry wail from her daughter, but couldn’t see the tears of frustrations that surely welled in her dark eyes.
“She looks like you when she gets angry,” Trent said, and caught her hand. “Just as stubborn as you.” He laughed and they stopped, facing each other.
“Me, stubborn?” she said indignantly, screwing up her face in mock thought. “Let me think—yes, perfect example—who didn’t listen when I said that climbing onto the roof wasn’t a good idea. But no, you wouldn’t listen. You nearly broke your neck.”
He laughed. “Exactly how many times more do you want to rub my nose in it? Besides, you nursed me back to health quickly enough.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “I’m hard to kill.”
“You know what Linda said to me after Sarah was born,” she asked. “She said that it was no wonder our daughter was born ten months after you fell off the roof because we spent so much time in bed to nurse you back to health.”
“Yes, I have especially fond memories about that time.”
Yes, she thought. They had spent a lot of time in bed. And then nature had found a way. After eleven months of relationship bliss and one nearly broken neck, she’d found herself pregnant. In retrospect, it had taken an upset stomach for the Pill to fail, a bad condom on his end, and the right, or wrong, time of the month.
She’d been afraid to tell him, and when she finally did, he’d left the house, left her for a full day and night until she was all but crazy with anxiety. But he’d come back, telling her everything would be all right. Telling her that he was an idiot, that he had been wrong all along, that she needn’t worry.
He’d asked her to marry him then of course. But he’d asked her that pretty much any other month since they’d gotten together. Sometimes he’d proposed casually over dinner, sometimes after sex, sometimes as the first thing in the morning. She’d always laughed, telling him the time wasn’t right. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, but she was so happy, why change a thing?
And her pregnancy had turned out to be wonderful, without complications, her belly growing round and rounder each day.
And then her water broke.
She didn’t remember much except for the pain, the blood and more pain. Everything wasn’t right. He hadn’t been wrong. He’d never told her what he felt, what he went through during the two days she was in a coma, but he didn’t need to. She knew. When she finally woke, the doctors told her she’d never be able to get pregnant again. Not that she minded, holding the wonder that was Sarah finally in her arms. She’d feared Trent would somehow hold a grudge against his daughter, but he adored her with reckless abandon.
Trent’s arm came around her shoulder, pulling her out of her thoughts. “The local paper called, asking if they could stop by next week. They run a piece about historic villas and asked if they can take photos and have a short interview with you.”
She nodded. The old villa had received a lot of attention. She’d worked her ass off to get her firm started, and he’d spent months shaping his dream house and taking care of building consents. The council had breathed down their necks and watched their renovations closely, but the house was finally perfect.
“Truly,” she said. “I never thought I would love that house, but I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.” She’d filled the house with new memories, not troubled anymore that she couldn’t remember any of her childhood.
And one rainy morning three weeks ago, she’d woken up, knowing that her daughter would soon demand breakfast, and rolled into Trent’s arms, enjoying his warmth and realizing that there was no time better than right now. And when he had woken, murmuring a sleep-drunken “Wannamarryme,” she’d simply said yes.
“By the way,” he said, “what are you wearing underneath your dress, something blue?”
She pushed him playfully. “Want to find out?”
“God yes.” He pulled her close, his mouth hovering over hers. “I’ll have my wicked way with you tonight, woman.”
She let out a breathless laughter and wriggled free. “Let’s race back. If you win, you can make an honest woman out of me.”
Katherine ran as fast as she could in her wedding dress until she heard Trent’s voice behind her. “Don’t you know,” he said as he closed his hand around hers, “I always win?”
About the Author
Amy Redwood lives in Vancouver, Canada. This wasn’t always the case. She grew up in Europe, moved to New Zealand and then explored China before settling down on the west coast of Canada. She likes nothing better than dark chocolate, autumn rain and curling up on the couch reading a great story. But what she loves is writing about smart heroines and sexy heroes enjoying hot nights, hotter days and a happily ever after. After all, nothing beats a happy end.
Amy welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Amy Redwood
His She-Wolf
Jaguar’s Claim
Midsummer Charm
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