“Ow, Jesus! No pinching! Pinching is not cool!”
Sofia’s got a lethal finger grip. Her older brothers, who teased her mercilessly, must’ve looked like Dalmatians growing up, ’cause I doubt she took that shit lying down.
But as I carry her out to the sidewalk, she’s laughing. So my mission for now is accomplished.
And sixteen hours later, Sofia’s mission is accomplished too. Because that’s when our law firm’s first baby comes screaming—arguing—into the world.
? ? ?
“Samuel, huh?”
I peer down at the bundle of sleeping, sweet-smelling baby in my arms. People always talk about how newborns have their mother’s lips or their father’s nose, but I never got that. They all just look like babies. Insanely cute, but pretty much the same.
“So, you guys are doing the S thing? As if Sofia and Stanton Shaw wasn’t nauseating enough?”
Stanton tilts back in the pleather recliner beside Sofia’s hospital bed. He picks a green grape from the bag on his lap and pops it into his mouth. “Nah, he just looks like a Samuel.”
“He looks like an alien.”
At Sofia’s frown, I amend that statement. “An adorable alien, but still, he’s got a head on him. How’d that feel coming out?”
Sofia smiles sweetly. “I hope you get kidney stones, so you can find out.”
Then we sit in companionable silence for a few moments. Until Sofia gently prods, “Have you talked to Kennedy?”
My heart squeezes until my whole body throbs. My anger bled out sometime last night. Now I just ache for her.
“No.”
Stanton pops in another grape. “Why not?”
“I’m still hoping she’ll come to her senses.”
“Do you love her?” Sofia turns to her husband with an open mouth. “Hit me.”
He effortlessly lands a grape in her mouth.
I brush my knuckle across Samuel’s perfect hand, imagining how it’d feel to hold a tiny newborn girl with blond hair. “Yes, I love her.”
“Then fucking fix it, man,” Stanton insists. “You had a fight; you said things you didn’t mean—welcome to Relationship Land. But you don’t break up over a fight. Not if you love her.”
Sofia talks as she chews. “He’s right. If we broke up every time we disagreed about something, Samuel’s home would’ve been broken a long time ago.”
Stanton nods.
Sofia’s voice is sincere with experience. “It’s scary, I know. Giving someone that kind of power over you—accepting that your happiness will forever hinge on theirs. But it’s worth it.” She reaches out and Stanton takes her hand, giving her a secret smile.
Words from two decades ago echo in my head and slip out of my mouth. “The ride is the only thing that makes the fall worth it.”
Sofia’s head tilts curiously and I shrug. “A smart, fearless girl told me that once.”
Stanton grins. “She sounds like a keeper.”
Damn straight she is.
? ? ?
In my head, I act out every sappy grand gesture teenage girls fantasize about. I stand outside her bedroom window with a boom box over my head. I run through the airport, catch her moments before she boards the plane, and profess my undying love. I completely redecorate my home office, put her desk right next to mine, to prove to her how much I want her in my life.
In reality—I don’t do any of those things.
Because this isn’t a movie—this is real life. And Kennedy and I are the realest thing I’ve ever known.
What she needs most from me isn’t over-the-top gestures or expensive gifts I could buy her without a second thought. She needs the words. And she needs to look into my eyes when I give them to her, so she can see that I mean every single one.
I nod to the federal agent stationed at the gate of her house. He lets me through and I march up the steps of her porch, knocking on her door. After what feels like forever and a day, it opens, and shiny eyes—one still swollen—stare up at me from her bruised, beautiful face.
A guilty blade thrusts up under my rib cage—because she’s still hurting. And I’ve made her hurt more.
The words rush from my lips.
“We’re not done. I didn’t—” My voice cracks. “I didn’t mean it.”
Her face softens in fucking sympathy—for me. And the blade plunges deeper, twisting cruelly.
“I know, Brent.”
I touch her cheek, because I can’t not touch her for a second longer. “I’m sorry.”
Her breath hitches. “Me too. I’m sorry I can’t make this easier for you.”
“No. I was an ass. You don’t have to make it easier for me—I don’t want you worrying about that. I love you, Kennedy.”
“I love you too.” She takes a deep breath—then her chin rises and her voice is stronger. “Don’t ask me not to go again. I don’t think I could stand it.”
“I won’t. The only thing I’ll ask is”—my head dips, moving closer—“let me come with you.”
Her face crumbles and she surges against me. I hold her as tight as I dare as her tears soak into my shirt, and she nods against my chest. “Yes. Please come with me.”
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