“Gina Luca, I don’t deserve you, but I’d be the luckiest guy in the world if you’d agree to be my wife.”
Fighting back tears of joy, she let her gaze travel around the people slowly crowding in on them. Here she was, about to kiss a guy while a crowd of people watched and smiled, and that old nausea started to rumble in her belly. But then her gaze collided with Ford’s again and she could see he was even more afraid of rejection than she was. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead, and his eyes were literally begging her to forgive him. To love him. His lips mouthed the word, “Please,” and her heart cracked open. All the insecurities she used to protect her heart from pain, barricades she’d spent decades erecting, just…melted away.
She wasn’t sure she could trust her voice, so she mouthed back, “Yes.”
His face lit up like she’d made him the happiest man in the world. And she believed him. His lips found hers in a hungry kiss, her arms winding around his neck, her fingers getting lost in his thick hair and holding him to her. Cheers broke out from the assembled firefighters and a few happy exclamations from Kate on the phone. They barely noticed.
Eventually Ford pulled back, his big hands cupping her face. “You don’t happen to know any good wedding planners, do you?”
“I might.” What a smart-ass this man she loved was.
And then before she could even formulate a thought, he kissed her again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Five Years Later…
It was total chaos in the Victorian’s backyard as about twenty mini Hartigans, mini Lucas, and a smattering of other little kids squealed in glee as they ran from the bounce house to the face-painting station to the puppet show in the far corner. In the middle of it all was the birthday girl, sprinting toward the inflated castle wearing her favorite gift—a bright red firefighter’s helmet from Uncle Frankie.
“Out of my way, big nose,” one of the kids said, shoving Amalie Hartigan out of her place in line.
Ford jumped up from his chair on the porch and was halfway down the stairs when Amalie pulled back her right fist.
“Amalie,” Gina’s voice called out.
Their little girl froze, then turned to her mother with as close to an innocent smile anyone with Hartigan blood could pull off—even at three years old.
“We don’t hit our friends,” Gina said as she walked over to Ford’s side on the stairs. “And Christopher, it’s not nice to call people names. Do it again and I’ll tell your mom.”
The little dark-haired boy, whose fifth birthday party had been the weekend before, glanced over at his mom and then turned to Amalie, who was practically his twin in all but parentage. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, let’s go fly.” Amalie grabbed her cousin’s hand and they clambered inside the bounce house together.
Only once they were inside and giggling together did Ford let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Calm down there, papa bear,” Gina said with a laugh. “That won’t be the last time she gets teased for having the Luca schnoz, but I’m glad she has it.”
“Even though you hated it for so long?” he asked, trying to figure out where his wife was going with this.
“I’ve decided that it’s lucky.” She tapped the tip of her nose. “It means she’ll end up with the perfect man who loves her for who she really is—just like it was lucky for me.”
“I’m the lucky one here.” He curled his arm around her waist and brought her closer, dipped his head, and kissed the most beautiful woman in the world.
Don’t miss Lucy’s story! Add Muffin Top to your want-to-read shelf at Goodreads.
And for an early sneak peek of Muffin Top, turn the page!
Chapter One
Nothing good ever happened when the captain asked Frankie Hartigan to come into his cramped office at the back of the firehouse and close the door. Frankie ran the last few calls through his head. It had to be about the asshole with the Jag. They’d had a warehouse fire down by the docks, and this idiot had parked right in front of the hydrant. Really, the guys didn’t have a choice but to bust the car’s windows and run the line to the hydrant through there. The rich dipshit had pitched a royal fit, right up until Frankie had come over, loomed his entire six-foot-six frame over him, and asked him if there was a problem. There hadn’t been. Shocker.
“Have a seat, Hartigan,” the captain said as he sat down behind a desk overloaded with paperwork and manuals and—rumor had it—a computer untouched by human hands.
Frankie looked around. Captain O’Neil’s office always needed its own Hoarders episode, but today it looked worse than usual. There was shit everywhere. The two chairs in front of the desk were stuffed with half-filled boxes, old standard operating procedure manuals were stacked four feet high up the wall, and the coveted firefighters vs cops rivalry trophy from last year’s charity hockey game had the place of honor on top of the tower. Even if he wanted to sit down, there wasn’t a place to do it. So, he did what he always did when he got brought in for a good reaming out: he stayed standing.
“I’m good.”
The older man sat there, staring at Frankie from under two bushy gray eyebrows so fluffy they looked like they were about to take flight. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me before I start, Hartigan?”
Frankie did the walk down memory lane again and came up with only one possibility. He’d been a fucking angel lately. At thirty-three, he really must be mellowing with age. “Is this about the dipshit with the Jag?”
“Oh, you mean the one who plays golf with the mayor? The one who needs two new windows and a fresh detail?” O’Neil gave him a hard, steely glare that lasted for all of thirty seconds. “That little prick got exactly what he deserved, which is what I told the fire commissioner when he called to take a chunk out of my well-endowed ass.”
“Well, that’s the only thing I can think of.” And if it wasn’t that, then why in the hell was he in what amounted to the principal’s office of Waterbury Firehouse No. 6?
“Good,” O’Neil said with an ornery chuckle. “You never know what someone will confess to when you start off that way.”
“You’re a piece of work, Captain.”
“I’m an old relic, but I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, even if they are making me archive or dump most of this stuff.” He waved huge bear paw of a hand at the mess.
Frankie looked around. “Yeah, I thought it looked like more than normal.”
“Well you won’t be seeing it after today.”
That yanked his attention back to the man behind the desk. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Nope.” The captain’s face lost all signs of humor. “You are.”
For the briefest of seconds, Frankie wished he had taken the offer of a chair. Then, the familiar sizzle of the Hartigan obstinate Irish temper sparked to life.
He stalked over to the captain’s desk and laid his palms down on it. “Are you shit-canning me?”
“Nothing of the sort. It has recently come to my attention, thanks to all of my spring cleaning efforts, that you haven’t taken a leave of absence in I don’t even know how long, which is totally against regulations. I can’t believe human resources and professional standards haven’t ganged up on your oversized Irish ass already about it. The department has gone all in on the mental wellness aspect of firefighting safety, and that includes taking your required leave to mentally refresh yourself.”
Frankie threw up his arms in frustration, wishing like hell that the captain’s office was big enough to pace in because he was about to go off like TNT and needed to let off some steam stat. “That’s a bunch of touchy-feely bullshit.”
“Agreed, but you have three weeks built up and you’re taking it all as of now.” The captain fished around on his desk for a minute and then pulled out a sheet of paper, handing it over. “And here’s the letter from up the food chain ordering you to take three weeks immediately.”