Beyond Ordinary Love_A Journey's End Billionaire Romance

by Ann Christopher

  She took a deep breath. Steadied her nerves.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  The dogs gave her a final nuzzle and took off for parts unknown.

  “Samira?” Footsteps hurried down the hall ahead of Rhoda, who appeared with an open box and a delighted grin. She swooped in for a kiss and set her box on the table. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were here?”

  “Just got here. Where’s Dad?”

  “I’m here.” Joe’s gravelly voice sounded aggrieved as he rounded the corner and came into view, also carrying a box. “Your mother’s got me shuttling boxes like a pack mule. She doesn’t care how old and tired I am.”

  “Hush, Joe.” Rhoda flapped a hand. “No one cares about your tale of woe.”

  “That’s the problem,” Joe muttered.

  Eyeballing their matching sweatsuits (Rhoda’s in red; Joe’s in the standard heather gray), Samira went to the cabinet for the paper plates. “Do you folks want to stop for doughnuts now, or do you want to keep working a little while longer?”

  Her parents exchanged a look.

  Rhoda cleared her throat. “We’d like to talk to you first, honey.”

  Samira looked around in surprise, hoping some shoe wasn’t about to drop on her head. Things in her life were unsettled enough just now, thanks. The one good thing? She hadn’t told them about the baby (she wasn’t up to discussing it with anyone just yet, and she didn’t dare raise their hopes for a new grandchild until she hit her second trimester), so she knew that wasn’t the topic at hand.

  “What’s up?” she asked warily.

  “Let’s sit down,” Rhoda said. “Joe, push those boxes back so we can see each other. There you go.”

  They sat around the kitchen table.

  “I’m sorry your birth mother treated you like that, Samira,” Rhoda said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

  Oh, that.

  “It’s okay.” Samira kept it upbeat, desperate to make all due assurances and get off this topic before she started with the waterworks again. “I haven’t even given it a second thought.”

  Rhoda and Joe rolled their eyes at each other.

  “What did I tell you?” Rhoda asked him.

  “Well, she’s nothing if not predictable,” Joe said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Samira barked with a tinge of annoyance.

  “Of course you’ve given it a second thought, honey,” Rhoda said, leveling those all-knowing mother’s eyes on her. “Why do you act like we’ve never met you and don’t know anything about you? You’ve been thinking about it and wondering what’s wrong with you or what you did wrong that she didn’t want you then and doesn’t want you now. You’re wondering if she has other children. You’re wondering about your father. You want to be a better mother when you have your own children. You’re wondering if you’ll ever have children. Am I right?”

  Samira couldn’t answer.

  She was too busy ducking her head and surreptitiously wiping her eyes.

  So much for not getting weepy.

  Her father squeezed her arm without a word. Luckily he didn’t try to hug her, which would have led to a round of sobbing hysteria, and no one wanted that.

  “So we wanted to give you some things.” Rhoda pulled a small flat box out of her pocket, opened it and handed Samira something. “You were wearing this when the social worker brought you to us.”

  Samira looked down and gasped.

  It was a minuscule elastic bracelet made from round pink beads and a slightly larger center bead shaped like a heart.

  “And we gave you this,” Rhoda said, putting something else in Samira’s hand.

  It was a minuscule gold bracelet with a single heart-shaped charm engraved with Samira and her birth date on one side and Our Heart on the other.

  Additional tears blurred Samira’s vision.

  Luckily, her father always came prepared for such occasions and passed her his hankie.

  “The thing about you, Samira, is that you always focus on what you think isn’t there,” Rhoda said. “In school, if you got all As and one A minus, that A minus would ruin your mood for days. If one little friend didn’t make it to your birthday party, but all the other kids did? Same thing. Your glass is always half empty and you never see that you have plenty to drink.”

  Samira pressed the hankie to her mouth and tried to get her shit together.

  “I think your birth mother made this for you, Samira. I think she was very young and scared. We’ve told you this before. And I should have given you the bracelet long ago—”

  “I told her to give it to you, Samira,” Joe said.

  “—but I was selfish. I was afraid if I gave you something from her…I don’t know what I was afraid of, to tell you the truth. I didn’t want you to find her and love her more than you love me.”

  “Like that would happen,” Samira said.

  “I’m sorry, Samira.”

  “You were human, Mom.”

  “Thank you for that, Sweetie. But she loved you enough to do the right thing and give you to people who were ready to be parents and provide a good home. She loved you enough to want you to have a memento from her.” Rhoda sighed. Tipped her head thoughtfully. “Why doesn’t she want to see you now? Who knows? But maybe her reasons have nothing to do with you. Maybe she’s not proud of the way her life turned out. Maybe she never told her family or her spouse. Maybe she thinks they’d judge her on religious grounds. Maybe she got pregnant when her husband was away—maybe he was in the military—and you were the product of an affair. We’ll never know, will we? All we do know is that your mother loved you enough to make you this little bracelet to keep with you. Enough to make sure you had the best possible chance at a good life. Okay?”

  Samira nodded.

  “This other bracelet? This is the one your father and I gave you—”

  “I picked it out,” Joe interjected. “Soon as we heard you’d been born—”

  “Yes, yes, we can hear about your shopping exploits later,” Rhoda said with a frown, waving him into silence. “The point is, we didn’t have much money, but we wanted you to have something special because you meant the world to us. We’d waited so long for you. And you wore both these little bracelets for months. Until they got too tight and we had to take them off.”

  “Show her the albums,” Joe said, nudging Rhoda’s arm.

  “Look, honey,” Rhoda said, standing up and pulling one of the boxes closer. “I want you to see these.”

  “Oh, my God,” Samira said.

  The boxes were full of photo albums, at least four or five per box.” She’d seen them around the house on various bookshelves, of course, but hadn’t paid them any attention in the last, oh, decade or so.

  But now…

  Choosing one at random, Samira discovered it contained pictures of toddler Samira, with chubby cheeks and red corduroy coveralls. Each picture had a caption written in her mother’s writing. Samira goes to day care, said one. Samira and Bunny, said another with Samira snuggled up to a stuffed animal she didn’t remember.

  Samira picked up another album, which was the same. All Samira, all with her mother’s painstaking captions.

  “We just couldn’t have loved you any harder, sweetie,” Rhoda said. “I know we didn’t give birth to you, but we loved you as hard as we knew how. Still do. Our moving out west won’t change that. Nothing will change that.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  Samira gave her eyes a final blot, handed the hankie back to her father and stood to give her mother—the only mother who counted—a big hug. Never had Samira been so sick of herself and her half-full glass. What was she doing? Indulging in what ifs and pining after a mother she’d never know when she had the world’s best and most loving mother right here? Holding Baptiste at arm’s length when he desperately wanted to give her the thing she desperately wanted—his love?

  All because she hadn’t known him for the requisite number of days yet? Because she worried that he’d leav
e her one day? Was he supposed to pledge her a blood oath first? Which part of life on earth came with an ironclad guarantee?

  Was she insane?

  She reached for her father. “Love you too, Dad.”

  “You womenfolk leave me out of the mushy stuff.” He planted a big kiss on her cheek, then turned away to hastily swipe a tear. “I ain’t got time to—”

  A cell phone rang on the counter.

  Actually, it started playing an all-too-familiar song.

  “Is that the theme from Friends?” Samira asked her father.

  “Hush, now. That’ll be J.B. checking in from France,” Joe said, hurrying to catch the phone before the song ended. “Yeah, hello? That you, J.B.? How’re you doing, man?”

  Samira looked around at her mother, dumbstruck. “Baptiste is calling him?”

  “That’s right,” Rhoda said.

  “To talk about me?”

  Exasperated sigh from Rhoda. “You are not the center of the known universe, Samira. I thought we’d cleared that up back when you were a kid.”

  Samira blinked, stung.

  “Let’s get a look at these,” Rhoda said, opening the bakery box. “Oh, cheese Danish. Perfect.”

  “Since when does Baptiste call Dad?” Samira demanded in an undertone.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Rhoda reached for the paper plates and handed one to Samira. “They had fun fishing. Now Baptiste checks in every couple of days. He’s the sweetest boy.” She smiled fondly. “He asked what we wanted him to bring us back from Paris. We asked for some of those rainbow macarons. Oh, and he says he’s been wanting to restock one of the ponds near his house in the country. He’s been asking your father his thoughts on what kind of fish he should get. But you probably know all about that, sweetie.”

  Samira didn’t know all about it.

  Disgruntled, she glared across at her father’s beaming face as he chattered away.

  Baptiste.

  It wasn’t enough for the insidious Frenchman to worm his way into her heart uninvited. Oh, no. Now he had to make her parents fall in love with him as well. Good thing she didn’t have a dog or cat. It probably would have left her in favor of stowing away in Baptiste’s Louis Vuitton bag on the jet.

  “Well, we’re almost finished with the back bedrooms, and the movers’ll be here first thing Monday,” Joe said into the phone. “Yeah, my back is holding up fine. I’m not trying to win any weightlifting awards.”

  “What are they? Best friends now?” Samira asked her mother.

  Rhoda shrugged and took a big bite of her Danish, mischief glimmering bright in her eyes.

  “So how are things going with your distributors? They cutting you a good deal?” Joe perched the phone between cheek and shoulder and wandered over to select something. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, you can’t let them get away with that kind of nonsense. Uh-huh…”

  Feeling unaccountably sulky now, Samira grabbed an apple fritter. The biggest one in the box. She took a giant sugar-filled bite and wondered what, exactly, she was fighting so hard against. Growing too attached to Baptiste? Letting him into her life? Counting on him? Loving him? Acting like she loved him?

  All those ships had already left the dock, hadn’t they?

  She missed him. They’d texted and video chatted every day since he’d been gone, but still.

  She missed him.

  Funny how the exact same existence she’d had for years before he arrived in her life now felt so strange without him. So incomplete.

  Riding a sudden wave of inspiration, she put down her fritter, wiped her sticky fingers and reached for her phone.

  “Well, I know you have your heart set on the carp, J.B.,” Joe said, heading to the fridge for a glass of milk. “But they’re kinda boring, aren’t they?”

  Hey, Samira typed into her phone. Thinking about you because I picked up some fancy mushrooms at the market. I want to try risotto. Wish you were here with—

  That didn’t feel right. She backspaced. Tried again.

  Wish you were home with me.

  She added the kiss-blowing emoji, then went back to her treat, her pounding heart flying wild and free.

  14

  That evening, Samira added more broth to the pot with one hand and stirred the risotto with the other. She sighed, wishing she had a free hand to wipe her sweaty brow. Whose brilliant idea was this, anyway? Risotto at home. Please. Her poor arm was about to fall off. This was why people went to restaurants to—

  The front door opened and slammed shut, startling her.

  “Honey! I’m home!”

  Samira froze, her heart leaping into her throat.

  Oh, no, he didn’t.

  She smoothed her hair, turned off the burner and hurried out of the kitchen as Baptiste’s approaching footsteps grew louder. By the time he burst into the living room and set his duffel and a large matching suitcase on the floor, she had her stern face and crossed arms firmly in place.

  It was either that or throw herself, sobbing, at his feet, and neither of them wanted that.

  “What are you doing here, monsieur?” she asked, doing her best to look annoyed.

  It was an impossible task. He looked amazing in his black cashmere turtleneck and jeans with a leather jacket thrown on top, and his windswept hair across his forehead only emphasized the amused emerald glitter of his eyes.

  He did his best to repress his own smile and look confused as he came closer.

  “You texted and demanded that I come home in time for the mushroom risotto you’re making for me.”

  Her heart swelled at his use of the word home.

  “I specifically recall mentioning that I was making mushroom risotto for myself.”

  “Is that what you said?” Rueful smile as he took out his phone and pulled up the text, pointing. “My English isn’t what it should be. But you did say that you missed me. I read that part twice. And you gave me an X and an O, which mean that you love me. Come see.”

  She sighed and gave him her most regretful look as she walked the last couple of steps, stood by his side and looked down at the text. He, meanwhile, tugged her closer with his free hand and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

  That entire side of her body shivered to life. God, the things this man did to her. One kiss from him, and her blood ran hot.

  “I may have admitted I missed you. In a moment of weakness. But I’m sorry to tell you that and X and an O mean a kiss and a hug.”

  She felt his lips curl against her forehead.

  “And the risotto?” he asked.

  “I might let you have a small plate. When it’s ready.”

  “So I don’t have your love and I don’t have your risotto,” he said, unsmiling now as he turned to face her and settled his hands low on her hips. “It seems I flew all this way for nothing.”

  Samira took a deep breath that did nothing to slow her heart’s frantic pounding. Then she squarely met his gaze, which was bright and hopeful. Heartbreakingly vulnerable.

  “I believe the text is silent on the topic of whether you have my love or not,” she said softly, winding her arms around his neck and sifting her fingers through his silky hair, which was warm from his scalp.

  A charge went through him.

  “Indeed?” His voice was a velvet caress. “Perhaps we should clarify the issue.”

  “Perhaps we should.”

  He waited, his eyes taking up her entire field of vision and his body strung tight with tension.

  And she, somehow, shoved aside all her fear, took a running leap and jumped over the brick wall surrounding her heart.

  “Je t’aime, Baptiste.”

  His breath caught. His intent gaze crisscrossed her face. Whatever he saw there evidently reassured him, because his expression shifted from quietly hopeful to absolutely adoring.

  “I don’t believe it’s legal unless you say it in your native language,” he told her.

  She laughed. “I love you in English, too.”

  “And I
talian?”

  More laughter. “Ti amo. Happy now?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He eased closer, letting her feel the hard bulge between his legs. She gasped, shuddering with sudden hot desire. “It’s very soon, don’t you think? What if you don’t really mean it? What if you leave me? What if you’re trying to trap me because of the baby?”

  There was no way she could hold back her smile. Not when he looked at her like that.

  She shrugged. “You can believe me or not. I still love you.”

  “Exactly,” he said fervently, pulling her all the way into his arms.

  She went eagerly, hopping up so she could rub her aching breasts against his chest and wrap her legs around his waist. He shuddered against her, pressing his face to the side of her neck.

  “Now I can breathe again,” he said, his voice choked. “Now I can breathe.”

  “I missed you so much,” she said. “You have no idea.”

  “I have some idea. Why do you think I came back today when I have more meetings?”

  “I have two things to say: one, you shouldn’t be flying back and forth just to see me. Think of the carbon footprint on your jet. What about the polar ice caps?”

  “And two?”

  “Thank God you have that jet and came back to see me.”

  Laughing, he swung her around and headed down the hall toward the bedroom.

  “How are you?” He examined her face closely. “You look good as new.”

  “I am good as new. I keep telling you.”

  “Please tell me the doctor says we can make love.”

  “Of course we can make love, you silly man,” she said, her cheeks burning.

  He smiled. Purest joy.

  She watched him, studying his features by the light of the nightstand lamp as he laid her on the bed. The glittering eyes. The hard planes of his nose and cheeks, which were in such contrast to the tender curves of his lips. The determined set of his jaw as he stared down at her clothes, his smile fading.

  “Is this my white shirt?” he asked.

  “It is. I like feeling close to you when you’re gone.”

  His dimples deepened as he ripped the two halves apart to get to her breasts.