“You’re cheating.”
“I’m not cheating.” Jasmine doesn’t look away from the screen, her fingers flying over the controller. “I’m just better than you.”
“No one is better than me at this game. I developed it.”
“And yet.” She pulls off a combo that shouldn’t be possible, and my character crumples. K.O. flashes across the screen.
I stare at the television in disbelief.
I turn to face her. “Explain. Now.”
She shrugs, reaching for her water bottle. “I grew up in foster care. Video games and reading were my escape.”
“You hustled me.”
“I prefer to think of it as a strategic revelation of skill.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Are you mad?”
I should be. My pride is in tatters. My crown has been stolen by a pregnant writer who’s beaten me at my own creation.
“Best of three,” I say.
“You’re a glutton for punishment.”
“I’m persistent.”
“Same thing.” But she picks up the controller again. “Your funeral.”
She beats me. Again. And again. And when she finally wins the fifteenth match, she does a victory dance that involves wiggling her shoulders and pumping her fists in a way that should be ridiculous but somehow isn’t.
I grab her hips and pull her onto my lap, silencing her victory dance with my mouth. Her laughter dissolves into a soft hum of pleasure.
“Sore loser,” she murmurs against my lips.
“I’m winning now.”
She pulls back. “That’s not how competition works.”
“I’m rewriting the rules.”
“You can’t just...” But I’m kissing her again, and she stops arguing.
I don’t mind losing. Not if it means her weight in my lap, her fingers in my hair, and her victory temporarily forgotten.
Tomorrow, I’ll demand a rematch. Tonight, I’ll take my consolation prize.
Jasmine
I type the lastsentence of chapter forty-two and stare at the screen. After months of silence, and believing I’d lost the ability to tell stories, I finished the book. The book series—Celestial— I started three years ago is finally complete.
Celeste got her happy ending. Prince Qalingo proved himself worthy of her trust. And the kingdom was saved.
I sit back in my chair and press my hands to my belly, where our daughter has been doing gymnastics for the past hour. She’s more active at night, which the books say is normal.
“I finished it,” I tell her. “Your mama actually finished the book.”
She kicks in response, and I burst into tears, choosing to interpret this as congratulations.
The door to my guest bedroom turned office opens behind me, and I don’t even have time to wipe my face before Antonio’s voice fills the room.
