“Perhaps it’s time I started making more of a difference to my family. Perhaps it’s time I let the world fend for itself.”
Though my chest felt blissfully light and airy at his words, I issued him a questioning look. He would be no good to our family if he spent all his days at home miserable.
But then one of his hands moved to rest on my lower belly. “Pretty soon you’ll be gloriously round with our new person, craving all sorts of disgusting foods at all times of the day and night—but mostly night. Perhaps I want to eat cheese steak and peanut butter sandwiches with you.”
“I ate those with Grace three times a week.”
“I know. You told me, but I wasn’t here to procure them for you,” he reminded me, clearly unhappy, and placed a soft, wet, sliding kiss on my lips.
“Greg, you shouldn’t use the baby as a reason to stay home.”
“I’m not. But I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t part of the reason I want to stay home.”
“She?”
“Yes. She. And she’ll love playing soccer and eschew all things forced upon her by outdated societal constructs.”
I huff-laughed at him. “She or he will be her or his own person and we will love that person no matter what.”
“That’s what I just said.” His eyes danced mischievously.
“Okay. So, what’s the other reason?”
“I am. I’m the reason. I’m tired and . . .” Greg slipped his hands into the fabric of my underwear and gripped my bottom, squeezing and pulling me more firmly against him. His head dipped to my neck and he nipped my ear, whispering hotly, “I miss you. And I’m tired of missing you. I’m tired of missing Jack and Grace.”
“I miss you,” I said on a sigh. “But I think we should talk about this more before we decide anything. I don’t want you giving up something so important to you without being thorough and thoughtful about it.”
“Fine.” His arms wrapped around me, holding me close. “You sleep on it and I’ll sleep on you.”
I chuckled, returning his embrace. “Thank you for including me in this decision. Thank you for asking me for help.”
“Of course. This is our life.”
We held each other and I allowed the possibility of what the settlement would mean to take hold. I imagined what life would be like with Greg at home, every day. I could finally get rid of those hot water bottle cozies and stop spraying his cologne everywhere like a weirdo.
A life with an accessible husband . . .
I abruptly recalled that I had my own news to share as well.
“Quinn called earlier today.”
Greg said nothing for a beat, then asked, “He did? What did he want?”
“He offered me a job.”
My husband stiffened, just infinitesimally, likely due to surprise. “Doing what?”
“Security consulting for his private clients. It would mean some travel, not a ton, and mostly to Europe, Canada, and Australia.”
“Do you want to take it?”
“I need your help.” Echoing his earlier words, I pulled far enough away to capture his almond-shaped brown eyes, now a little lighter than they’d been when we first met. A whiskey instead of a Kahlua . . . I might have been craving liquor.
“Help me figure out what to do next.”
A slow grin spread over his features as he studied me. It was crooked as it always was—sexy and thrilling and wonderful.
Clearing his throat cartoonishly, his eyes dancing with mischief, Greg placed a single kiss on my collarbone. “Tell Quinn you want his office. I’d love to be there for that conversation.”
I barked a laugh. “Yeah . . . no.”
“And a pony.”
I smacked Greg on the shoulder. “Be serious.”
“Okay. Okay.” He cleared his throat again, seriously this time. “As you said, we should be thorough and thoughtful about it. But honestly,” he shrugged, “if you want to do it, you should.”
I narrowed my eyes on him. “And the kids?”
“I can take care of them. Maybe I’ll even enlist Man-Child Matt from time to time. We’ll be fine.”
When I continued to glare at him he quickly added, “Mind you, I likely won’t do as good of a job as you. And I can’t promise the house will always be clean. Or that we won’t weld. Or launch rockets.”
“Launch rockets?”
“If they don’t learn about launching rockets at home, then they’ll just learn about it on the streets.”
I glowered at him. “That sounds like something Hitler would say.”
Greg chuckled and shook his head. “Well done, Mrs. Archer. There’s no arguing with that.”
“Thank you. I try.”
A smile lingered over his lips as he examined me. “The point is, we’ll figure it out. We always do. We can’t resolve everything now, because—as you so eloquently pointed out to your knitting group earlier—this marriage thing is a work in progress.”
My heart skipped, bouncing around the walls of my chest, because in this moment I was happy.
We were together. We were safe. The future was unknown. However, I’d learned over the last fourteen years that there was no such thing as a happily ever after.
“Fe.” Greg slipped his fingers under my shirt, his big palms massaging my breasts suggestively, sending spikes of lovely warmth and coiled want to my belly, fingertips, and toes.