“Yes?”
“My heart keeps discovering new ways to love you,” he whispered, like it was a secret. A magnificent, beautiful, perfect secret.
My smile was immense and immediate. A rush of emotion stung my eyes. Because sometimes marriage to this man was wonderful.
But sometimes it was a chore.
Love was never enough, not without mutual respect and a great deal of drudgery and effort. And even then, it wasn’t enough. Wanting each other, being open to change, pushing each other to improve and grow—for the better—working to deserve each other, was the key.
I loved him and I always would. But that was the easy part. Working to deserve him and demanding that he work to deserve me, everyday—that was hard.
But he was worth it.
And I was worth it.
“Thank you, Greg. I love you so much, and I’m so grateful we found each other.”
“Me too, my darling.” He held my eyes captive, prolonging the romance of the moment, reminding me of why I married him in the first place.
But then, after a minute, he squeezed my boobs and asked, “Are we going to have sex tonight? I have stuff to do and it's already nine thirty.”
-The End-
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About the Author
Penny Reid’s days are spent writing federal grant proposals for biomedical research; her evenings are either spent playing dress-up and mad-scientist with her three people-children (boy-8, girl-6, tiny dictator-5 months), or knitting with her knitting group at the local coffee shop. Please feel free to drop her a line. She'd be happy to hijack your thoughts!
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Read on for: Sneak Peek of The Player and the Pixie (Rugby series #2) Penny Reid’s Booklist (current and planned publications)
Sneak Peek of The Player and the Pixie (Rugby series #2)
By LH Cosway and Penny Reid, coming March 2016
Chapter 1
Lucy
Flesh was a strange color for nail polish.
I understood black (for the Goths) and even grey to a certain extent, but flesh? You were just painting your nails the same color they already were. It was like dying your hair red when you were a ginger.
Pointless.
I stood staring at the selection of colors in the cosmetics section of the local department store, trying to resist the urge to pick up that oh so tempting shade of canary yellow and shove it in my handbag. You don’t need it. You don’t need it. You don’t need it. Material objects are transitory. The joy they bring is momentary and hollow…Strangely, my mantra wasn’t working right then.
So, you’ve probably already guessed my secret. I had an addiction…or maybe a compulsion was the better word.
I was a thief. A shoplifter. And the mere sight of consumer items small enough to conceal within the confines of a purse or a coat pocket gave me twitchy fingers like you wouldn’t believe.
It was abhorrent, I knew that, and I’d been doing so well in my efforts to quit. Six months ago I moved to New York to begin a new job as a celebrity photographer/blogger/youtuber, and I’d made a resolution to stop. I hadn’t stolen a single thing in all that time. Yes, the Big Apple remained untouched by my habit for five finger discounts. And yet, there I stood, just itching to steal that flipping ridiculous bottle of nail polish.
I knew the reason why, and her name began with a J. That would be Jackie Fitzpatrick, my mother, and provider of inferiority complexes everywhere. It was summer and I’d come home to visit, see my brother and his fiancé, meet up with some friends. The problem was, I’d committed to staying at Mam’s for the duration. I was only back a day before she started in with the usual comments.
When are you ever going to meet a man and settle down?
Those baggy jeans do nothing for your figure.
Have you considered coming with me for a Brazilian wax? (A Brazilian wax with my mother, excuse me while I vom)
Would you please do something different with your hair? Looking at all those colors is giving me a headache.