“From The Five Sisters?” he asked, wrinkling his nose. “To what? We found each other here. We fell in love here. I love the name.”
“Me too,” she said, looking across the table at Jessica, who had her palm gently against Elise’s still-flat belly. “But I just think The Three Cousins has such a nice ring to it.”
“The Three . . .”
She met her fiancé’s shocked, hopeful eyes as he tried to make sense of her words.
“Wait a second! Meggie. Are you saying . . . do you mean you’re . . . we’re . . .?”
She nodded, taking his hand and flattening his palm on her own belly as she smiled up at him tenderly.
“. . . having a baby too.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“God,” he whispered. His eyes glittered in the candlelight. “God, I love you.”
“I love you too,” she said, letting herself be drawn into the strong, protective warmth of his arms.
Laying her cheek on Cameron’s shoulder, she watched as the Englishes and Winslows celebrated Alex and Jessica, and she knew that whatever heartache she’d experienced in her birth family would be righted by the family she’d chosen. She and Cameron would, as he’d promised, build a beautiful future. And looking over at the nearby table that held her beloved sisters—Alice, Elizabeth, Priscilla, and Jane—she made herself a promise that, no matter what happened with her father, there would always be enough love, and enough room, for everyone.
THE END
The Winslow Brothers continues with…
Campaigning for Christopher
11.17.15
The Winslow Brothers
(a companion series to The English Brothers)
Bidding on Brooks
The Winslow Brothers, Book 1
Buy BIDDING ON BROOKS now!
Proposing to Preston
The Winslow Brothers, Book 2
Buy PROPOSING TO PRESTON now!
Crazy about Cameron
The Winslow Brothers, Book 3
Thank you for reading!
Campaigning for Christopher
The Winslow Brothers, Book 4
Buy CAMPAIGNING FOR CHRISTOPHER now!
(Turn the page for a sneak peek at Campaigning for Christopher!!)
(Excerpt from Campaigning for Christopher, The Winslow Brothers #4 by Katy Regnery. All rights reserved.)
Chapter 1
Julianne Crow’s feet hurt.
No, not hurt.
Burned like they were on fire.
And no wonder…she’d been on them for almost six straight hours, out in the middle of nowhere at some vineyard, waitressing at a wedding for a bunch of entitled, elitist asses. Speaking of the gluteus maximus, hers had been pinched about three dozen times, she’d been leered at fairly consistently since her arrival and twice she’d been propositioned outright about having a “quickie.”
But worst of all was the blonde moron in the Brooks Brothers suit and fraternity tie who’d had the gall to ask her “Dot or feather?” after staring at her face with narrowed eyes and licking his lips suggestively.
“Excuse me?” she’d responded, dumbstruck that he’d be so glibly insulting.
“Dot or feather?” he’d asked again, grinning at his cohort, who took his scotch on the rocks and cocktail napkin from her proffered hand.
His friend sipped his drink, having the decency to look embarrassed. Though not enough decency, apparently, to intervene, she thought acidly.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said, barely able to keep from snarling at his overtly racist inquiry and determined not to entertain it, “but I don’t understand the question.”
“What kind of Indian are you?” Brooks Brothers snickered, his blue eyes sharp, his smile mean. When she didn’t answer, he shrugged. “Dot would’ve at least gotten the joke. Feather it is.”
Her eyes blazed with fury and embarrassment and frankly, if she had a feather with her, she would’ve liked to shove it up his ass. Instead, with all the dignity she could muster, she offered him a brittle smile and turned to walk away. She refused to sink to his level, but he had inadvertently made her mission tonight that much easier.
As she walked back to the bar inside the massive tasting room of The Five Sisters vineyard, she reviewed the instructions she’d been given before the reception: find the youngest of the bride’s four brothers—a tall, blonde man named Christopher Winslow—slip the Rohypnol in his drink, and then she’d have about twenty minutes to get him somewhere private before the drug kicked in completely.
Still upset about the mean-spirited joke courtesy of Brooks Brothers, she slammed her empty silver tray down on the copper wine bar, making it clatter loudly.
“Whoa,” said Joe, the gray-haired bartender whom Julianne knew from previous waitressing gigs. “That bad?”
“Worse,” she said. “These guys are total assholes. White, rich, entitled, arrogant assholes.”