by Moss, Brooke
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice cracking. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have—”
“Shhh.” Demo reached into the pocket of his coveralls. When his hand emerged with a little black velvet box, the crowd erupted into cheers. “I have a question to ask.”
My heart screeched to a halt inside of my chest, and I froze. This was the very moment that I’d lived in fear of for twenty years. After watching my mother get marched down the aisle more times than most people cleaned their ovens, the idea of marriage had taken on a slightly unattractive feel.
Trapped. Tied down. Off the market. Taken.
Fight or flight! Get the hell out of Dodge!
But I remained standing. Even if my mind screamed at me, warning me of impending doom, I knew one thing for sure. I couldn’t live without Demo any more than he could live without me. This was it. The moment I’d been dreading for more than half my life.
The moment I settled down.
“Marisol Vargas? Will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?”
The entire ballroom of people focused on me. Over a thousand eyes honing in on me to witness my reaction. Could I really do this? Could I really settle down and spend the rest of my life with a man who smelled like oil and sweat?
Why, yes. Yes, I could.
My face split into a grin I couldn’t hide. “Of course I will.”
The end.
Epilogue
Demo
“It’s a girl!” Fletcher cheered happily, emerging from between Stacia’s knees with a blood-covered screaming bundle. “Congrats, Demo. You’re a father.”
Flashes of light popped in my peripheral vision, and for a second, I was dizzy.
I was a father. I was a father. To a girl, no less.
I needed to buy a shotgun.
“Is she okay? Is she okay?” Stacia wept.
I looked down at the sweaty fingers laced with mine and realized I couldn’t feel my hand anymore. “Yes,” I told her, pulling my hand free and wiggling my fingers. “Yes, she looks fine.”
“She’s more than fine!” boomed the chubby nurse who was now wiping my daughter—my daughter—off on a warming bed. “Ten toes, ten fingers. And bellowing like a baby elephant. She’s perfect.”
Stacia beamed, collapsing back onto the bed with a relieved sigh. “Thank you.” Tears rolled down her face as she looked up at me. “Thank you so much.”
I bent down and pressed a kiss to her sweat-slicked forehead. “You’re welcome. Thank you.”
We gazed at each other. Pride, and joy, and terror, and elation all rolled into one sappy look between new parents. The air in the room felt different as I pulled it into my lungs. Cleaner, fresher, almost ethereal. Like all of the planets had aligned and earth stopped rotating for just a moment while we welcomed our child on.
I was a father.
“And thank you.” Stacia’s voice was weak. She looked beyond exhausted as she turned and looked up to the person standing on the other side of the bed, holding her other hand. “Thank you so much.”
My eyes rolled up to Marisol’s face, which was pale as she stared, wide eyed, at the baby across the room.
“You okay, babe?” I asked.
She met my gaze and blinked. “That was unbelievable.”
I laughed. “It sure was.”
“I’m glad it’s over.” Marisol focused on Stacia, her eyes still wide as half dollars. “I can’t believe your body just did that. I can’t believe you survived that.”
Fletcher looked up from whatever the hell he was doing—I didn’t even want to know—and said, “She did an amazing job. Just like you will someday.”
Marisol narrowed her eyes at me, even though her mouth still pricked upward. “Don’t get any ideas, Romeo.”
She never ceased to amaze me. She was the only woman in the world who could watch something that clearly repulsed her, and still look like a Playboy model after. But that wasn’t why I loved her as much as I did. I loved Marisol because she’s everything I’m not. Creative, determined, confident. Every personality trait I lacked, she had in spades, and when we were together, we made one perfect entity.
“Why don’t you let her get through the wedding first,” Stacia peered around my shoulder to where the nurse was wrapping the baby in what looked like yards and yards of pink blanket. “Where’s Toby? Is he all right?”
Toby, who wasn’t a half bad guy, considering the fact that I’d fixed Stacia up with one of my clients, peeked from around his camcorder. “I’m all right. You did so good, sweetheart, it was incredible” He gave me a thumbs up. “Got it all on tape, Dad.”
My stomach hurtled. “Thanks. I think.”
Toby dropped the camera onto a nearby chair and squeezed past me to envelop Stacia in a hug. Tears leaked from her eyes as they rocked. “When can I hold her?” she asked, sniffling.
“Now.” The nurse brought the bundle to Stacia and gently rested it on her chest. Little eyes covered in clear gel blinked up at me, shooting a shock of emotion straight to my heart.
“Hello there,” I whispered.
“My God, she’s incredible,” Marisol said, her voice breaking. She bent down and pressed a kiss to Stacia’s forehead, in the same spot where I’d kissed her. “Thank you for this gift. Thank you so very much.”
Her engagement ring caught the bright light from above the bed, and my breath caught. Our wedding was in one month. We’d pushed it back long enough that our daughter would be old enough to attend, and so that Stacia and Toby could come, too. Marisol hadn’t wanted a big wedding, but once her mother, Annalise, got wind of our engagement, she called Spokane’s premier event planner, and it snowballed from there.
I didn’t care. It didn’t matter to me if we had a damn three-ring circus, so long as I got to dedicate myself to the woman I loved by the end of it all. Oh, and so long as Yiayia headed up the catering for the reception. Which, of course, she did.
Marisol fit right into my motley crew of a family, and moved into my house on Lincoln Lane three weeks after my proposal. We earned enough money from the sale of her fancy house in the gated neighborhood to fix up my old house pretty nicely, and even managed to do a few things around Yiayia’s house, at the insistence of Mar, who said “living without central air is just plain barbaric.”
My life used to be filled with anger and isolation. I never thought that finding love was a possibility for me, because I’d rejected so many chances in my years since my debunked wedding to Belinda. I figured God was punishing me for kicking my best friend’s ass in His church, and that I was destined to a life of mooching meals off of my relatives, then suffering through heartburn alone at home.
Now I was about to be married to a caterer who insisted on naked omelet Saturdays.
Score.
Add in the fact that Stacia had agreed to a 50/50 split on parenting duties, so we would raise our daughter in a very modern American—er, scratch that. Make it a Greek-Latino-American—family… and I was the happiest man alive.
Marisol looked at me, tears dragging her makeup down her face. “I can’t believe we have a daughter.”
“I know.” I grinned. “It feels surreal.”
“Surreal?” Marisol squeaked. “It feels out of this freaking world!” She put her hand on the baby’s head, gently swiping her damp hair. “We’re parents.” She glanced at Stacia and Toby. “All of us. Holy shit. We’re all parents.”
I laughed and wiped tears from my eyes. “That we are.”
Gazing at Marisol, I felt my heart tighten inside of my chest. She was so incredibly gorgeous, sometimes it hurt to look at her. It was like looking directly at the sun. Which was fitting, because there were no words to describe how much light she’d brought into my life. When I looked at her, I saw years—decades—into our future, surrounded by droves of children and grandchildren. I saw days spent arguing over the cable bill, and nights spend making up in each other’s arms. I saw noisy family meals peppered with Greek and Spanish conversations, and impromptu m
ake out sessions while weeding the flower gardens in the summer.
There were times when I wondered how I’d managed to go so many years without her in my life. Being without her felt like being void of oxygen.
I crossed around the bed and enveloped Marisol in my arms.
“I love you,” I whispered into her sweet smelling hair. “I love you so much.”
Her tears soaked the skin on the side of my neck. “I love you, too.”
Together we wept like any new parents would.
Of course we did. Hell, we’d just met our daughter.
Acknowlegements:
Marisol’s story was born one afternoon when my beta reader said, “You’re gonna write Marisol’s story. Right? Right?”
It wasn’t until that moment that I even considered making Baby & Bump a series. And thus the This & That Series was born. Marisol’s story came to me fast and furiously, almost filling my brain faster than I could type. Which, if we are all being honest, is exactly Marisol’s style, wouldn’t you say? I have to say that I had so much fun writing it, and that Marisol will go down as one of my favorite characters of all time. Thank you, Marisol Vargas, for being you.
I have some of the most supportive friends and fellow writers in my community, and I am eternally grateful for each of them. Katie & Jess, you two are the best beta readers an author could ask for. Thank you so very much. And Jess, thank you from the bottom of my heart for the midday plotting sessions that usually consisted of me griping about my personal life more so than actual work. Thanks for never getting sick of me. Or at least not showing it when you were.
Special shout out to “The Itzel Library”….you know what you helped with, and I appreciate it. Very much.
At the risk of sounding over the top, I literally cannot take all of the credit for this book, or Baby & Bump, without throwing out homage to my CP and editor, Meggan Connors. This woman earns her keep, folks. She listens to my whining, accepts my moods—no matter how foul, and she literally turns my books into little works of silly, romantic art. Without her, my stories are just that… stories. Thank you, Meggan. You are priceless.
A special thanks goes to my family. They never make me feel bad when I am buying KFC—again—so that I can get back to writing. And they always tell me I’m pretty, even when I haven’t showered for two days, and my hair looks like a lesbian logger (not that there’s anything wrong with that.) My children are wonderful, chipper, funny little people who make me feel like I’ve done something right in this world, and my husband is truly the greatest gift I’ve ever received. Thank you.
As always, I’ve saved the best for last. To my readers: I will never be anything without each of you, no matter where you are, or what you look like. You’re wonderful, you’re supportive, you’re perfect, and in my imagination you’ve all got most excellent hair. Thank you for making my career dreams come true. It is all because of you that I can say this adventure was a success. Thank you so very much.
And as always… stay tuned. There is always more to come.
Then & Now
Book 3 of the This & That Series
I blinked at the man sitting across the table from me, waiting for him to tell me he was kidding, but alas… he just sat there. Wiggling his eyebrows at me. I may have seen a bit of tongue poke out of his mouth, too, but I couldn’t be sure, because the waiter approached our table with the check.
Thank you, God, for rescuing me from this pervert.
“How was dinner tonight? Good, eh?” The waiter beamed down at us like our steaks could’ve changed our lives.
Mine hadn’t changed my life. It had, however, given me a rotten case of indigestion. Or maybe that was the company. The slick expensive suit and Mercedes Benz parked outside of the restaurant weren’t enough to convince me this date was a good idea. In fact, I was pretty convinced that it was a completely, utterly bad idea.
This was the last time I let my friend, Marisol, fix me up. Six dates with a myriad of handsome, successful men, and not one of them had made my heart twitch. Or my girlie bits twitch… because that’s what she said really mattered when you’re a thirty-four year old widow. (Her opinion, not mine.)
As if Marisol’s illicit track record as a serial dater—before she married a handsome Greek mechanic—weren’t enough to convince me that I was better off alone, then the fact that I was getting more hot and bothered fantasizing about getting home and devouring my latest novel was. I could practically feel the thin cotton comfort of my favorite sweats on my legs, instead of the constrictive grey skirt I was wearing. And in the back of my mind, I imagined the way the worn pages turning would sound in my quiet bedroom.
I almost gasped. I had a babysitter back at home, which meant the kids were probably already asleep. And that meant I would be left alone to read in peace.
Hot damn! I could hardly contain my excitement. I had to get home. Now.
My eyes darted from the waiter’s face, to my date’s, who was staring at me like a teenager stares at the most dangerous ride at a theme park. Like a roller coaster he needed to conquer.
Sorry, buddy. There won’t be any conquering tonight.
Suppressing a shudder, I smiled up at the waiter. “The steak was dry,” I said sweetly. “And the asparagus tasted like gym socks. Could we get our check please?”
Okay, okay. So I was being kind of nasty. Usually that wasn’t my style. Or, it wasn’t before my husband dropped dead on a golf course, leaving me alone with three small children to raise. In the twenty-two months, eight days, and five hours since, I’d become a bit callused. My friends and family tell me that they miss the “old me.” That it’s been nearly two years, and I need to perk up.
Hey, we can’t help what grief does to us, right? At least that’s what my therapist says. I consider that permission to be as bitchy and antisocial as I want. Hey, that’s why I pay her the big bucks, right?
“That was, uh, direct.” Irritation flashed in my date’s—Rick, or Rich, or… oh, crap, I don’t care, anyway—eyes. “You know, I had to pull some major strings to get us into this place without a reservation. It’s the hottest restaurant in town.”
“Oh, really? I wouldn’t know.” I fiddled with my earring, and looked at him coyly. “Thank you for the dinner, Rich.”
“Rob,” he hissed, adjusting his cufflinks.
Seriously, who cared?
“Right.” I looked down at my hands and noticed the subtle indentation the third finger on my left hand still had. A sinking sensation filled my stomach, and I sucked in a sharp breath of air.
I’d only stopped wearing my wedding ring a few months ago. Around the same time Marisol convinced me to go on debunked date #1. Thom with a “th,” who’d asked me if I wanted him to come to his place for some sex and won tons. Little did the poor schmuck know I’d given up both sex and won tons after my husband, Brian, died.
“Where are we headed next?” Rob asked me, smoothing down his tie. “How about some martini’s at Madison’s? Maybe that’ll loosen you up.”
I looked at him sharply. “Need loosening, do I?”
He scoffed. “Well, yeah. When Marisol Vargas called to tell me she had someone she wanted me to meet, I expected someone a little more…”
I knew where this was going. I’d had the same discussion with most of the other dates. When Rob paused, I folded my arms across my chest. “Promiscuous?”
“No!” He shook his head, then laughed and nodded. “Well, yes. Maybe. A little.”
Good Lord, I hated dating. I’d hated it clear back in college when I’d met Brian at a frat party. “Sorry. Not my style.”
Rob leaned forward, his elbows on the table making his roll plate tilt. “Marisol says you’re a widow.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
No, he wasn’t. They never were. If he hadn’t died, we wouldn’t be on this date. Duh.
“How long has he been gone?” Rob asked, tilting his head to the side.
; Ah, the head tilt. The #1 way people expressed their sympathy without actually uttering the words, my sympathies.
“Nearly two years,” I told him, my arms tightening around my middle.
He clicked his tongue. “That’s awful. Just awful.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I decided on: “Yes.”
“So, in those two years, you haven’t… you know, dated anyone seriously?”
Aw, hell. I knew where this was going. Date #3—Patric-without-a-K—had gone there, too. The whole you’re a lonely widow, you must be so horny thing. Oh, yeah. I’d heard that one before.
I shook my head. “No.”
His eyelids lowered in what I could only assume was supposed to be a seductive gaze. “So…” He licked his lips. “In theory, you haven’t been with a man in, like, two years. Right?” He said this like I’d actually refrained from something necessary for life. Like water. Or air. “I’ll bet you’re lonely.”
“Listen, Rob, I—”
He didn’t let me finish. “Listen, why don’t we go back to my condo? I’ve got a hot tub, and maybe we can get to know each other better. Work off some of that sexual tension you must have pent up.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Oh, good Lord.”
The truth was, I’d only recently started to miss sex. In the months and years prior, I’d missed Brian’s hands on my skin, or the way he laughed into my neck when we made love, or the scent of his cologne on my pillow in the morning. I still missed those things. But the all-consuming ache I felt for those moments had dulled. Now they were distant memories that made me wistful.
I no longer craved Brian’s adept ability to satisfy me. Now I just craved the release. The explosion of sensation that made my mind go fuzzy and blank. The split second of utter disconnect when I could forget how lonely I was, and the stress of being the only parent my kids had left. When the buzz filled my head and my toes curled and my body hummed. That’s what I missed nowadays.
Not that I was going to admit that to Rob. I’d rather grow cobwebs in my woo-hoo than go to bed with the likes of him. Or any of the other losers I was being set up with. No thank you. Because as much as I missed the feel of someone else’s hands on my body other than my four-and-a half year old’s, having a friends with benefits relationship wasn’t my style, and never would be.
