“Love you too,” he says.
I'll never get tired of hearing those words falling from his sweet lips – or his Daddy's, for that matter.
I know the routine by now. Grant will get suckered into reading him a story or two. This is their father-son bonding time, and I'm so glad they have it. They share a little time together each and every night. I love seeing them together. I love watching big, gruff, burly Grant, catering to his little wisp of a boy. It's such a contrast, but it's so precious to me.
I wait until they're in Oliver's room, and quietly slip down the hallway. I stand outside the door, listening to the conversation inside, trying hard to keep the smile off my face – and failing.
“Wanna hear the time Sam saved my life for like the millionth time?” he asks.
I shake my head, giggling softly like a schoolgirl. While his war stories are horrific, he takes care to water them down into child-friendly fairy tales for our son. This is his way of reliving his years with Sam, of keeping his friend's memory alive, and sharing a deeper part of himself with Oliver. It's important, because what Grant experienced helped shape him into the man he is today. And the man he is today is very much the kind of man I want our son to be when he grows up.
Right now, Oliver doesn't know that Sam was once a real person, a hero to his father. He also doesn't know he's dead. To Oliver, Sam is some magical being, some hero from a magical kingdom, who always does the right thing and saves his loved ones. He doesn't understand the sadness around Sam, or the reality of it all, but he enjoys the tales all the same. And the two of them get into it, creating crazier scenarios for Sam, the Mighty Hero, as they go.
Most of them not real, or so I hope.
“Yes!” Ollie says.
“Well, you see, there was a lion. But not just any old lion – this one was huge. The biggest lion to ever walk the Earth. This lion had teeth the size of my head,” Grant says, his voice full of wonder for the benefit of our son.
Okay, so this one is not true, I laugh. That much I know. I consider stepping inside, telling him to tone down the story a bit, but there's no need. Oliver is giggling along with him, throwing in his own ideas. There's no fear in our child's voice. I know that he has nothing to fear with a father like Grant. None of us do – not even against a whole pride of lions.
If only Oliver knew how his own father was also a hero. One day, he will. When he's old enough to understand. I'm going to make sure he knows just how incredible and heroic his father is. For now though, Sam gets to be the mythical hero, and both father and son seem to get a lot of out. More than just a story. I know keeping Sam's memory alive is important to Grant, and I won't ever do anything to discourage that.
I waddle to the office down the hall, remembering something I have to do really quickly. Better to do it while they're busy telling fantastical tales to each other. I flip on the light, sit down at the laptop, and turn it on. It beeps as it blazes to life, and a moment later, my desktop comes up. I send a quick e-mail to my editor – a reminder that I'm writing a story for the local Chicago paper. Or, rather, the online version of said paper – about Sam Frederickson's untimely death.
It's a surprise for Grant. It's a tribute to his friend, and I'm hoping, a chance at closure. It's outside of my wheelhouse these days, but it's time the rest of the world knew what really happened to Sam, and I'm the only one who can tell the whole story. Tasha will be mentioned as well, because it's only fitting. Two innocent people, in love and happy, split apart by money and greed. Their lives ended too soon.
It would be a compelling narrative in a work of fiction. The fact that it all really happened to me, makes it even more compelling.
I'm typing away, completely unaware that I'm no longer alone until Grant's hand gently falls on my shoulder. Turning my head, I stare up at the man I love more than life itself, and smile. The father of my children. My husband. My hero.
“He's asleep, finally,” Grant says.
He kneads my back, and I close my eyes, relishing the sensation of his hand upon me.
“Let me hit send on this e-mail, and I'll be right in,” I say.
Leaning down, he brushes his lips against mine. I yearn for more, and reach for him, but he pulls back.
“Not until you're in bed with me, missy,” he says. “Then you'll get all the kisses you want. And maybe even, a little more.”
Playfully, I pat him on the cheek. I hurry up and hit send, glancing over my shoulder at his tight ass as he leaves the room. There's no way I'm going to keep him waiting. Most nights, we lay in bed and talk. Sometimes we make love – but with my giant belly, it's getting harder and harder these days.
He's patient with me, but it's our anniversary. We didn't do much, just spent the day with Oliver. We don't have to do much to show each other we care. I'll never doubt his love for me. Not after everything we've been through together. We've walked through the fires and have come out the other side stronger than steel.
I turn off the computer, manage to get my large self up, out of my seat, and head across the office. I flip off the light on my way out and follow him into our bedroom. We still have the same bed as he did before – the bed from the cabin. It's king sized, with a handmade wooden frame. We’ve replaced his plaid sheets for satin white ones, but we still curl up under the hunter green down comforter.
Some things may have changed, but most things haven't. He's still the same rugged mountain man I met all those years ago. But now he's something more.
I stand at the edge of the bed, staring down at him. He pulls back the comforter for me to climb in. Grant sleeps naked, and tonight is no exception. I slip out of my pajama bottoms, my gaze devouring every muscle on his chest. I've memorized his body. Every tattoo. Every scar. Every muscle and how it moves under his skin. Still, I can't get enough of him. I can stare at him all day.
Grant sits up in bed, crawling to the edge. He wraps his arms around me, kissing my lips first. Then my neck. He moves down my body until he gets to my belly. Staring up at me with those gorgeous eyes, he kisses my pregnant tummy.
“I love you more than life itself,” he says.
“I know,” I say, holding back the tears. I run a hand through his shaggy hair. “And I love you just as much.”
He helps me crawl into bed and lays down next to me on the pillow, staring deep into me with a deep smile lighting up those beautiful hazel eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. I know he's thankful for me, for our children and family.
And I am too.
Life is calm. It's familiar.
It's exactly what I've always wanted.
It's exactly what I need.
THE END
Book Four - Accidentally Royal
Chapter One
Piper
Planes take off. Fly to their destination. Then land.
I know this because I spend a considerable amount of my life flying around the world for work, and never once has my plane not landed.
So why in the hell have we been flying around in aimless circles for the last hour? Considering this leg of the trip – Costa Rica to the hub in Atlanta – is only half of my total travel time today, this little game of ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ is seriously starting to piss me off. Mainly because when the pilot finally decides to land the plane, I have a connecting flight to catch. That I am probably going to miss if we don't kiss tarmac pretty soon.
Shit.
"Excuse me," I say, leaning across the empty seat beside me toward the man on the other side of the aisle. "Do you know what's going on?"
He pulls out his earbud. The wire briefly tangles in his long, stringy hair before dropping onto his tie-dye t-shirt.
"Hmmm?"
"Do you know why we haven’t landed? No one's saying anything."
As if my question set off some sort of alarm, the intercom system crackles, and I hear the pilot's voice booming out.
"Hello, passengers. For the time being, we have been instructed to maintain our current holding pattern. W
e hope to be landing soon."
This is the third time she's hoped we'd be landing soon.
"I heard one of the flight attendants say another plane landed on our runway," Earbud says.
"Didn't they learn in elementary school you're not supposed to cut in line?"
"They almost ran out of fuel," he says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Holy fuck. That happens?" I almost bite my tongue as my voice bursts out far louder than I intend it to. "Sorry. But, seriously, they can do that? What, the pilot just forgets to swing by the gas station before takeoff? How do they not have enough fuel for a flight?"
"Weather delays. Holding patterns."
He chuckles, but I'm too focused on the glaring flaw in this situation.
"They would put us in this long-ass holding pattern because another plane ran out of fuel because of the same thing?"
He leans closer to me, his eyes slightly widened as if he had completely forgotten he was the one to initially voice that possibility.
"I don't know. It's possible." He looks at me suspiciously. "What did you hear?" His eyes dart back and forth a few times, then he leans in even closer than before. A strong whiff of patchouli oil and stale pot smoke hits me, and I wince. "Maybe someone on board knows something. Secrets. They're everywhere, you know. Maybe they're holding us up here until they decide what to do with the spy. I bet it's that woman up there."
I glance where his wild eyes indicate.
"The elderly woman crocheting a blanket?"
"It's always the ones who look the least suspicious. I bet that blanket's a code for something." By the shades of pale blue and green, and its tiny size, I'm guessing it means she has a new grandson. The man's eyes snap back to me. "If we go down, and I die on impact, you can totally use me as a human shield against the flames. I won’t mind. By the way, do you have any identifying marks? Tattoos? Scars? Dental work? If you go first, I'll try to protect those, so the rescue people can use them to identify you."
Or you could just ask my name. You know. Choices.
Narrowing my eyes at him, I sink back into my seat.
"Thank you."
I guess.
He pops his earbud back in place and closes his eyes.
Thank god that conversation is over.
I stare out the window. I'm rapidly losing hope that I will be able to catch my connecting flight. This is supposed to be a good day. The flight from Costa Rica – where I've been living for the last few months – should have taken less than four hours. From there, a layover in Atlanta, and then on to Boston where I'd hop in my rental car and be home in less than three hours. Home. Westover is not where I was born, but it's been my home for over two decades. The last few years, though, all I’ve managed to do is stop in for a few hours, maybe a day or two at most, in between assignments for the humanitarian work I've devoted my life to. This trip is supposed to be the first time in three years I've been home for a few weeks, and I'm looking forward to spending some time with my dwindling collection of family and friends. I've learned that not many people are willing to try and maintain a close relationship with someone who bounces around from place to place, tends to forget birthdays and holidays, and is more interested in talking about new agricultural technology than babies or weddings.
That number might drop even further if I show up any later than I already am.
Finally, the intercom crackles and the pilot's voice blares through the speakers once again.
"Alright, folks, it looks like we've gotten approval for landing. Please make sure your seatbelt is securely fastened and your tray is in the upright position. Thank you for your patience."
Most of the words after 'approval' are drowned out by the cheers and clapping from my fellow passengers, but I noticed the pilot sounds just as strung out as we feel. That is not reassuring. I need these wheels to touch the ground. Now. After tugging on my belt for the tenth time to make sure it's fastened, I grip the armrests beside me. I might fly frequently, but that doesn't mean I’m comfortable with it. I'm still very aware of the fact that I am a non-flying creature, hurtling through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour, in nothing more than a big metal tube for protection. Usually, I can ignore it. But it gets harder to do so when things don't go according to plan.
We land, successfully, of course. Thank God. I feel like I can breathe again. Until I start thinking about my connecting flight and panic sets in. It’s scheduled to leave in a little less than thirty minutes. When I booked this trip, I thought the hour and a half layover in Atlanta would be a nice buffer between destinations. I would relax and make it to the next plane with plenty of time to settle in. Maybe pick up a snack and a magazine. Instead, I'm gripping my carry-on with every ounce of strength I possess while eyeing the other passengers around me like a gladiator preparing to fight my way out of the Colosseum.
The door opens, and I shove myself into the aisle, showing no mercy as I push through the crowded plane toward the door. The few passengers ahead of me step out of the gate and I finally break free. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I start running.
Of course, my connecting flight is all the way across the terminal, I mutter to myself. Of course.
I jog as briskly as possible through the herd of passengers milling their way through the airport. Using every bit of my limited coordination skills, I twirl and dodge and scramble down the moving sidewalk. The minutes are ticking by. I should have already boarded. I'm always late. Always. The whole reason I booked the flights the way in the first place was so I couldn't possibly be late for this flight.
Wrong. The whole fucking flight was doomed the second I booked a ticket on it.
Still running, I glance back over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t trip the middle-aged man I just cut in front of and feel myself hit something. A stray luggage cart. What asshole left that here? My body bounces back from the sudden impact and I crash, flat on my ass, to the floor. Industrial airport carpeting has absolutely no give.
"Shit!" I shout.
My bag flies across the hallway, the ancient zipper splitting open, causing everything inside to burst out and scatter across the floor. Scrambling toward the mess, I try to shove my belongings back in as quickly as possible, no thanks to the gawking eyes of the people passing by. I scoop an assortment of papers, notebooks, pens, and two paperbacks back inside before I realize I should probably focus on retrieving the box of condoms and sleek little case –definitely not an electric toothbrush – that are still laying on the dusty carpet.
"That's a bummer, man."
I look up to see Earbud rushing past, a backpack that looks like a giant hacky sack thrown over his shoulder.
"We had a moment!" I shout after him. "You were going to use my body to deflect the fuel fire, the least you can do is help me!"
"I can help you."
A voice with a faint European accent that I can’t quite place comes from behind me and I turn around. Rather than seeing the man who spoke, however, I come face to face with a pair of my (thankfully clean) pink lacy panties, dangling precariously off a finger that I desperately hope is just a floating appendage. A floating appendage with a disembodied voice.
Shit.
I snatch the panties and shove them into my bag before daring to look any higher. I actually might die of embarrassment. And, of course, my good Samaritan has broad shoulders, a perfect smile, and is hot as hell – and based on the look in his sparkling dark eyes, clearly thinks this situation is hilarious. Before I can say anything to stop him, he crouches down and starts picking up even more of my embarrassing belongings still scattered on the floor.
"I'm fine. Thank you so much," I say, trying to block his hand from the condoms. "Seriously. I can handle it from here."
"Are you sure?"
He picks up a travel-sized bottle of lube and the corner of his lips twitch. I scoop everything else into the bag, then snatch the tube out of his hand, tossing it in.
"There. See? All done. Thanks again
."
I climb to my feet and start toward the gate again, my cheeks burning. At this point, there are less than ten minutes before the plane leaves. I'll be lucky if they don't slam the door in my face. I realize the Panty Dangler is now running beside me. Gripping my bag tighter, I try to run even faster. He seems to take this as an invitation for an afternoon jog and speeds up beside me, the leather bag hanging from his shoulder barely moving with the smoothness and confidence of his gait.
"I'm really fine," I say. "I can handle it myself.”
"That's good," he says.
We’re still running side by side when I finally see my gate in front of me. The door is still open, a small victory in the long and frustrating day I’ve had so far. The female attendant standing behind the counter looks distinctly pissy about my now very late arrival, and I push my boarding pass toward her without any pretense of pleasantry. My jogging partner steps up behind me and before I can comment, I see that's he's holding his own pass. At least that explains why he followed me.
I take my pass back from the disgruntled employee and rush down the corridor into the plane. Everyone else in the cabin is sitting down in their seats and looks cool and collected as I frantically make my way down the aisle and drop into my seat. Taking a few breaths to pull myself together, I latch my seatbelt and give it a couple of hard tugs. I can feel the person beside me glaring at me. It's hard to miss since the three-seat configuration of the cabin means she's approximately an inch and a half from me. My bag is still sitting on my lap and I dig through it to find the pack of gum I always have at the bottom. I shove two pieces into my mouth, then hold the package toward the glaring woman.
"Gum?"
She grimaces like I've offered her an arsenic-dipped lollipop, and turns back to face forward. Glancing around, I notice all the seats in the cabin are full. Everyone is locked and loaded...so where is the safety speech from the flight attendant? Why aren't we taking off? Minutes pass and the energy around me starts getting antsy. The intercom crackles ominously before a baritone voice echoes out.
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