Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
So this was my story then. Imperfect, messy, and filled with way too much bloodshed for my liking. But this happy ending was completely mine. And at the end of it, I found something beautiful.
I found a family that loved me by choice, not by blood.
A man who would pluck all the stars from the sky just to make my life brighter.
A partner who chose me every day, even through hardship.
And that wasn’t just enough.
It was everything.
Six months later
“Another mocktail?” My husband dragged a pink beverage in a fancy cup across the table, embellished with a pretty straw and a slice of pineapple. He took a slow sip of his brandy, squinting at the sun as it dipped into the ocean. We’d escaped to a Jamaican white-sand beach where we sat at a restaurant overlooking the sea.
Summer heat licked at my skin, the briny, fresh air caressed my face, and I was content and full of delicious dishes and desserts.
“Oh, sod off.” I pushed the mocktail back to him.
Tate smirked wryly. “I think sodding me was what got you into this predicament in the first place.”
Another wave of nausea washed over me, this time a milder one. The mornings were the worst. Which was why Tate had decided to distract me by taking me on a seven-month babymoon around the world, checking off every place I’d wanted to visit before we welcomed the new addition to our family.
The house in Kent was supposed to be ready shortly before the baby arrived. We were gutting it and starting over from scratch since Tate didn’t see the same quaint, nostalgic magic I did in the thirty-year-old kitchen and dated wallpaper.
“I’m still incredibly happy to be pregnant,” I clarified. “I just don’t like mocktails. They’re basically kiddie juice with garnishes.”
Tate nodded, taking another sip of his brandy.
“And if I don’t get to drink during this pregnancy, neither does the man who impregnated me.”
With the same smooth finesse with which he sipped his drink, Tate tossed the glass off the balcony of the beach restaurant, unblinking. “Done.”
“Same goes for cold meats.” I didn’t know why I was giving him hell. Perhaps because my stomach was way too bloated for eight weeks of pregnancy.
“Yes, Apricity.”
“And I want a big Notting Hill bench in our garden.”
Tate grinned, bringing a glass of water to his mouth. “Got no idea what the fuck that is, but consider it done.”
“You should really be more assertive with me.” I raised an eyebrow. “Our child will walk all over you if you give them everything they want.”
“It’s one law for Blackthorn Junior and another one for you.” He put the glass down. “No one can wrestle these many concessions out of me.”
“You might feel differently when they arrive.”
He shook his head. “I’ll love them more than I do myself. But nothing and no one will ever compare to how I treat you. I worship at your altar.”
His phone beeped, and I knew who it was before Tate had the chance to glance at it.
“Dr. Patel reminding you that you have a therapy session in fifteen minutes, huh?” I smiled.
Tate’s psychiatrist worked closely with the therapist Tate spoke to twice a week to ensure he was making progress. And he was. He now solved mathematical problems for fun, maybe once a week, and sometimes he forgot to do them altogether. He stopped writing on walls and furniture. He stopped tap-tap-tapping his numbers whenever he felt anxious. He still followed some OCD routines, but they were mild and didn’t interrupt his daily life.
He still checked that all the lights were off before we left the house. Only stepped through doors and into elevators with his right leg. Read the Financial Times in a peculiar order that was not chronological and made sense only to him.
“The man is relentless.” Tate shook his head, standing up and giving me an apologetic grimace. “You’d think he’d get the hint when I told him I was married, yet there he is, blowing up my DMs like a fangirl.” Tate offered me his hand to help me to my feet from across our table.
Smiling indulgently, I shook my head. “The weather is lovely. I think I’ll stay here a bit more.”
He stiffened for a moment, and I knew what he was thinking. Even though the past six months had been blissfully eventless in the Ferrante and Callaghan department, Tate was still reluctant to let me out of his sight. He had PTSD. So did I, I supposed. But it only made me fight my fears even more.
“You know…” Tate trailed off. “I can always skip today’s session. I’ve been doing it twice a week for seven months now. Nothi—”
“Respectfully, love, I’d like some time alone.” I arched a pointed brow.
He looked ready to argue—in love or not, arguing was my husband’s favorite cardio right after having sex—but he inclined his head, reminding me he was one phone call away.