Page 87 of Learning at 40

“I flowed into the river.” Wiggling my brows, I tease her, but I’m liking the idea. The lake was my first love, but it took River to open my heart and really soar.

“Lake Weller it will be, then.”

River slowly smiles. Those blue eyes gleam like when the sun hovers over the large body of water, and I catch my breath, grateful for every day she looks at me like she is. She’s sunrises and sunsets, and I’m happy to start and end every twenty-four hours with her by my side.

I never expected to be a father again at forty-one. Then again, I hadn’t ever expected my heart to be so full of love.

“You know, you asked me once why I call you angel. I don’t believe in mystics or kismet or any other type of voodoo, but I saw you in your yard the night of Ben’s death, and again on the night I received his letter, and I swore he sent you to me. You were the angel meant to help me fly. You are the love I needed to learn to soar.”

I was flying, and I never wanted to come down from the high.

Second Epilogue

August—the following year

[Jenna]

Someone’s been sleeping in my bed, and she’s still in it.

I thought I was dreaming. I’d been reading copious amounts of children’s tales to my two little girls, and I was convinced the sentences had seeped into my subconscious. I could not get away from being a mom even in my sleep. But slowly, my brain registers that the sound of that final bear’s voice was a little too gruff and a little too gravelly and a whole lot of sexy.

My eyes flip open in the dark bedroom, and my heart races. I am not alone in here. My chin is pinned by the power of a thick paw of callused fingertips and the depth of dark eyes narrowed and focused keeps me frozen in place. His nose is so close we practically touch, and I’d scream if only my vocal cords worked.

“However, she doesn’t look like Goldilocks.” His eyes flick up to my hair which happens to be raven black, and he chuckles, rugged and low. “So, who the hell are you?”

I swallow, feeling his wrist near my throat as his fingers hold my jaw. Dear God, don’t let him hurt the girls. The thought speeds up my already sprinting heart.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I choke, and his eyes widen.

“What the fuck?” he snaps, startling me even more. “You’re in my bed, ’locks.” The incredulous tone mixes with his deep tenor.

His bed?

My mind flips through a mental checklist. This is Anna’s house. This is Lakeside Cottage. Her folks owned the place, and she inherited it. My daughters and I are her guests. The apartment above the garage was offered to me for a much-needed break. She said her brother—

“Archer?” I croak, wondering if the man holding my jaw is the elusive older brother Anna has mentioned a time or two. He wasn’t expected here. At the sound of his name, his hand slowly releases my chin but travels south to my throat. The thick palm isn’t squeezing. He just rests it in place like a turtleneck sweater. I can still breathe, but my breath is gone. Despite the dark room, the intensity of his eyes sucks up all the oxygen.

“Who the fuck are you?”

I struggle to find the words again. Maybe it’s that strong voice or the fact he’s on all fours over me. How did I not hear him enter the apartment? Or this room? Or this bed?

“I’m Jenna Davis, a friend of Anna’s.”

His hand lowers even more, flattening over my chest. I’m certain he can feel my heart thumping under my skin. I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, and loosely covered by a sheet and light blanket. But I’m all too aware of how thin the layers of material are. The heat of his hand seeps through my flesh just above the swell of my breasts which rapidly heave in fear. Maybe fear isn’t the right word. Is it possible I’m also turned on? Despite not knowing Anna’s brother, I was having the most wonderful dream before the gruff little bear invaded my thoughts, and that dream has my nipples on high alert that someone’s hand is very near them.

However, my head says this is all wrong.

“What are you doing?” I choke because his hand is sweeping lower, and my gut reaction is to lift my knee for his balls. Which I do. Only, two things happen at the same time. First, he captures my leg between his before I get anywhere near his precious cargo, then his hand slips lower, squeezing my breast.

“What the fuck?” he says, his voice like sandpaper against rocks.

“What the frickety-frack?” I say at the same time.

“What the fuck is frickety-frack?” That incredulous tone returns, and I finally find enough strength in my arms to lift them upward and push at his chest. Speaking of rocks, he’s missing a shirt, and his smooth pecs are as solid as a boulder. He bitterly chuckles at my weak attempt to move him but shifts enough for me to scramble out from underneath him. He remains on the bed, on his knees, while I slip off the mattress and back up until I collide with the wall.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. That rugged voice softens only a sliver, and my arms cross over my chest in a giant X, covering myself as best I can.

“You just manhandled my boob,” I blurt.