AllFreeNovel
Share Us
About Ali
Ali has always loved to read, especially when there's a happily ever after, but found that there weren't enough books out there featuring girl athletes. So, she decided to work on that. Like the heroines in her books, Ali is an athlete, with running and skiing her favorite sports these days. Ali hails from Vermont and now lives in her own happily-ever-after in Colorado with her husband, boy-girl twins, and golden retriever Pancake. When she's not pursuing an outdoor adventure, Ali's less healthy passions include ice cream, coffee, and beer.
Get to know Ali Dean by following her on any of her social media and author links below.
Visit her at www.alideanfiction.com
Sign up to her newsletter
Join her reader group
Until James
Aurora Rose Reynolds
Catch a glimpse of Wes and July’s adoption journey.
1
July
“No. Absolutely fucking no,” Wes says, and I glare at him from across the kitchen. “Don’t give me that look, babe.” He glares back at me, and I hate to admit his is better than mine. He’s perfected it since we got together.
“It’s just a weekend,” I point out, and his eyes narrow even more.
“You are not going to fucking hang out in the middle of the desert near Area 51, just because some idiot thought it would be cool to start throwing an annual party there.”
“I want to go.”
“No.”
“You do know you’re my husband and not my father or boss, right?” I ask, getting pissed, half tempted to chuck the coffee cup I’m holding at his head.
“You’re not going, July.”
“You can’t tell me what to do, Wes,” I hiss, unwilling to back down. Not now that he’s told me no like I’m a child instead of talking to me about this like I’m his wife and a grown woman.
“That ring on your finger says otherwise, baby.”
I press my lips together, not wanting to say something I know I’ll regret, but keep glaring at him. Not that it does me any good. Damn, I really need to practice my intimidation skills.
“I gotta get to the shop.” He walks toward me, cups my jaw, then lifts my chin so he can press his lips to mine. “Don’t be mad.”
“You’re going to be late,” I warn, and his eyes search mine for a long moment.
“I love you.”
I jerk my chin up, and his sigh sounds full of frustration.
Once he’s gone, I turn to look out the window over the sink, hating that he left when I’m mad at him but too stubborn to call him and apologize or tell him I love him too. The argument was stupid, and it’s not even about going to the Area 51 party. It’s about the fact that another round of fertility treatments didn’t work.
For the last six years, we’ve been trying to have a baby, and every single month, no matter how much I pray or what I do, I have yet to get a plus sign. My infertility has been wearing on me, especially with my sisters, cousins, and friends having little ones. I hate that I can’t be completely happy for the people who mean everything to me when they tell me they’re pregnant. I hate that my own sadness is preventing me from just living in the moment with them and enjoying their happiness.
Before I start crying like I’m prone to do anytime I think about having a baby, I dump what’s left of my coffee in the sink, then walk through the house to our bedroom and finish getting ready for work.
2
July
