“I wasn’t sure,” she said, sniffling as she nestled under his chin, her hands flat on his bare chest.
“Laire, my darlin’,” he said, “wherever you go, I go. Wherever you are, I’m home. And whatever happens, we’ll handle it together. Our rules. Deal?”
She nodded, her strawberry blonde hair tickling his throat as she pressed her lips to his skin and whispered, “Deal.”
***
They spent the morning in bed, planning their move to New York, and decided that they’d fly up to the city on Saturday to start looking at apartments. Laire e-mailed Madame Scalzo to say she’d be available to start work in two weeks, and her boss replied that they’d get a drafting table ready for their newest in-house designer.
Ava Grace ran into their room around seven thirty, jumping into bed with them—thank God they’d pulled on some clothes a few minutes earlier—and handing her “Welcome Home!” card to Erik. And he was perfect—commenting on every carefully drawn detail and declaring it the best card he’d ever gotten.
Laire made them scrambled eggs and toast, pleased when Erik stepped up beside her to dry the dishes she washed, the small gesture all the dearer to her because she doubted that he’d ever washed or dried a dish in his entire life.
She took Ava Grace to school, then returned home to find the condo empty. Erik had left a note that read, Wanted to research some NYC law offices and would be way too distracted by you if I stayed here. Went to the coffee shop at Hatteras Landing. Will pick up Ava Grace at school and be back later. Kelsey’s coming to babysit so I can take you out to dinner. Wear something sexy. I love you. –E
She grinned at the note, setting it beside her laptop on the kitchen table as she reviewed e-mails and made some changes on the sketches she’d sent to Madame Scalzo last week.
Her thoughts wandered as she was sketching, as she considered how drastically her life was changing—finding Erik, sharing the secret about him fathering Ava Grace, moving to New York, working in a couture design studio based in London. It was almost too much to believe, and yet it was all hers, within her grasp: li’l Laire from Corey Island, pop. 886, daughter of a fisherman, wife of a—
She blinked at the waiting cursor, pushing away from the kitchen table.
Wait. Wife?
Slow down, Laire, she told herself. Erik didn’t say anything about getting married.
He wanted to be with her and wanted to have kids with her, and yes, he wanted to move to New York and start a life with her there, but marriage? He’d never actually mentioned it. And yet, from the sudden throb in her heart, she knew how badly she wanted it: to be Erik Rexford’s wife.
Oh, she didn’t doubt his love for her and Ava Grace—that was plain. And she knew he wanted to build a future with her. But deep in her heart, where she could still hear her mother’s voice, she felt the word husband, and she wanted Erik to own that role in her life.
Standing, she walked to the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea, filling a glass and leaning against the counter as she sipped it.
He’d ask her, wouldn’t he? When the time was right? When he was ready? Maybe after they’d been in New York for a while, when they were settled in and life had resumed a steady beat. Maybe then he’d ask her.
Or, she thought, sitting back down at her computer, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he never would.
They already had a daughter together and could very well have another on the way. They’d be bohemian, living in one of the biggest cities in the world with their kids, unmarried, bound to one another solely by love. That could work, couldn’t it?
“Of course that could work,” she said aloud, with false conviction. More quietly, she added, “Love is what matters. Nothing else.”
Her brow knitted, she went back to work on her designs, hoping that the words would become her truth sooner than later, and hating that the traditional part of her would never truly believe them.
***
After school, Erik took Ava Grace for ice cream, then to Utopia Manor. The water had been drained from the house, the carpets had been removed for repair and cleaning, and work had already started on the hardwood floors.
He didn’t know when he’d ever set foot in the house again, but he wanted his daughter to see it—to see where he and Laire had met so many years ago, to see where their love story was born. She oohed and aahed as they walked through the mansion together, her little hand tightly clasped in his, her other hand holding Mr. Mopples’s flipper. He showed her pictures of him as a child and a teen, and pictures of her Aunt Hillary, whom he promised she would meet soon.
At four thirty, he texted Kelsey to confirm that he’d be picking her up at five, and when he turned around, Ava Grace was staring at the large portrait of Erik’s mother, hung over the fireplace in the living room.