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“I don’t want to get married before I’m pregnant,” she told me last month.
We were in bed, both of us sweaty and content from making love. I could feel the strained want permeating her. It was as readable to me as every other part of her. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, smoothing aside strands of hair with her face.
“Why?” I whispered.
“Because that was part of the deal, right? Our perfect life included a family. What if I can’t give you one?”
“Hush,” I told her gently. “It’s early days, Rosie.”
“But I meant it,” she said, with that gorgeous confidence that tells me I made the right choice, the same way her every word, her every gesture, her every mood and passion does.
“I want to be your husband,” I growled. “And I want you to be my wife.”
“But you’ll respect my decision.”
Of course, I told her yes, I’d respect it, even if my need to be her husband bubbled up inside of me with more and more force each day.
Finally, I pull up outside the building that houses her studio, drive into the underground parking lot and ride the elevator up to the top floor. My heart warms when I think about the first time I showed her this place, the way she walked around the vast open space and ended up at the floor to ceiling windows, hands pressed against the glass.
“I can see the whole city,” she said softly.
“Perfect inspiration then.” I pressed up against, letting her feel the totality of my appetite, never waning. “You can paint the world and then conquer it.”
“But isn’t it too much?”
Spinning her, I leaned down to look right into her eyes. “Nothing is too much for you. The only question that matters is… do you want it?”
“Yes,” she said, nervously at first, and then stronger, fiercer, the same way she did when I asked her to marry me. “Yes, I do. I really freaking do.”
The elevator doors open onto the space, now a battlefield of artwork, curtains separating off certain sections to shield them from the sunlight. Since I purchased the real estate outright, she’s been able to paint the floor in swirling patterns, every inch covered in her personality.
She appears from behind one of the curtains, wearing denim overalls and a paint-flecked white shirt beneath. Hunger ignites in me, the way it always does when I visit my woman in her studio.
It’s the wild and creative look she has in her eye, the way those overalls hang baggily from her like they’re pleading with me to tear them off. It’s the messiness of her hair, begging for my attention.
But today her face is grimmer, her eyes narrowed.
“What is it?”
I move forward quickly, closing the distance in mere seconds, as innate protective urges amplify within me.
“Rosie?”
I take her hands, hold her firmly enough so that she knows she doesn’t have to be scared, no matter what.
She smiles, and it’s like sunshine breaking through clouds, like a song after a long silence. My smile lifts at the same time as I dare to hope, to dream.
“Rosie?”
“It was positive,” she whispers. “All three of them.”
“What was?”
She tilts her head, a sparkle in her eyes. “What do you think, Ryker? The pregnancy tests. I’m pregnant. We’re... we’re going to have a baby.”
The pause tells me she hardly believes it, but the truth of it crashes into me immediately.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I roar, sweeping her into my arms.
She giggles as I lift her off her feet. I spin her around and around and around.
“I love you. I love our child. I love our life.”
She finds my lips, kissing away my words, as four months of waiting turn into countless hours of unchained love and lust.
Extended Epilogue
One Year Later
Rosie
I’ll never get tired of staring down at little Margot, named after my mother who died giving birth to me.
I’ll never get tired of holding her in my arms and feeling her warmth, her vitality, listening to her soft breaths as her chest rises and falls.
I’ll never get tired of the unquestionable love I feel flowing inside of me, stronger and stronger with each passing minute.
She shifts in her sleep, making my heart feel like it’s going to burst at the cuteness. She’s such a beautiful little bundle, with her round full face, her hair wispy and fragile-looking.
As I softly rock her, I glance around her bedroom, at the starry mobile turning this way and that, illuming the stars on the walls. My heart brims with love and contentment and belonging when I think about how Ryker and I worked on this room together.
He put together the crib and the toy box and the mobile together, and I painted the stars, telling myself each one represented a kiss I was going to give my daughter. Well, if I stuck to that, I’d have to paint about a thousand more stars on the walls, because leaning down and softly kissing her forehead – and inhaling her wonderful baby scent – is one of the best things there is.
