Until I forget everything.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. Breathing hard. Rain dripping from the brim of his hat.
“I’m not ready for this to be over,” he says.
“Neither am I,” I whisper. “But we still have time.”
“Not enough. It will never be enough.”
He kisses me again, harder this time, one hand fisted in my wet hair and the other flat against the truck beside my head, and I rise onto my toes to get closer, to close whatever distance is left between us. His mouth is urgent now, no longer slow, and I can feel him hard against my belly.
The rain comes down in sheets, cold and relentless, plastering my hair to my face and my clothes to my skin. Slade’s hands are warm. Everything else is cold.
When I press my palm flat against his chest, his heart beats hard under my hand.
Lightning arcs across the sky, and in that split second of white light I see him clearly. Rain-soaked, looking at me like I’mthe only thing in the world, those green eyes on me so tender it takes my breath away.
I love him.
Even when the day of his departure to Denver comes and our marriage runs its course and the last thing we do together is sign the divorce papers, I’ll love him.
Chapter 50
Rebel
SLADE
The puppy is the size of my fist.
Lucky is sprawled in her bed with the other three pups climbing over her like she’s a jungle gym, which she’s tolerating the way only a mother could. She’s been easy about all of it from the start. Fed them, cleaned them, watched over them them. She’s a good mama.
The runt of the litter is mine to deal with. He came out small, got pushed off early, and needed supplementing from the first hour. So now it’s me and a warm blanket and a bottle every two hours. Somewhere in the last four days I’ve developed what I can only call a soft spot.
Lila keeps suggesting names. I keep finding reasons to reject them. Because I know what happens when I name him. I name this puppy, I’m keeping this puppy. Same way I kept his mother.
I’m in the process of figuring out how to keep the girl who brought them both through my door.
The one currently sitting on the mudroom floor in my flannel shirt at six in the morning, sipping from a cup of fresh-brewed coffee as she smiles at me, sleepy-eyed as she watches me carefully.
“What is it?” I ask.
“You just look really cute feeding that puppy, that’s all. You’re a natural.”
“Not my first rodeo, so to speak. Grew up doing it for lambs that got rejected by their mamas. Baby goats and foals too.”
She leans forward, eyes sparkling. “Seriously? Is there photographic evidence of this anywhere?”
“Probably somewhere in the family albums at Rosemont. Mom was always taking pictures.”
“This I have to see. Although maybe I shouldn’t, considering watching you right now I can feel my birth control failing,” she jokes.
I gently swaddle the now-sleeping puppy in the blanket and tuck him against his brothers. Then I reach for my wife.
She comes into my lap without argument, folding herself against me, her coffee-warm hands finding my jaw, her forehead dropping to mine. I kiss her slow. No rush. Nowhere to be. My hand finds the hem of the flannel and slides underneath, up the warm skin of her back, and I feel her exhale against my mouth.
“Trying to tell me something, Mrs. Rhodes?” I murmur. “You ready for me to put a baby in you?”
The flush starts at her cheeks and moves down her throat and I track every inch of it.
