Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Are you ready for your first present?” I ask, and her eyes light up.
“Yes. Gimme, gimme, gimme.” She claps excitedly, and I laugh.
“A little bit greedy this morning, I can see,” I mutter, and she smacks my shoulder.
“Whatever, I just love opening gifts. It could be a lump of coal, and I would still be excited about it.” She smiles as I pull out the card I tucked away in the top drawer of my nightstand. “A card, I love cards.” She holds it to her chest, and I laugh again. None of this surprises me, since my woman is Christmas obsessed. Everything is decorated—even Muffin has a red-and-green leash and collar with bells on it.
“Are you gonna open it or stare at it?” I question, running my hand up her thigh, and she leans up, kissing me on the edge of my jaw before ripping the card open.
“Vegas?” she breathes as she studies the two plane tickets sitting in her lap. “We’re going to Vegas for New Year’s?”
“Yes, and while we’re there, I want you to do me a favor.”
“What?” She pulls her eyes from the plane tickets to look at me, and I take her hand in mine, running my fingers lightly over her smooth skin.
“Be my wife,” I say as I slide a ring onto her finger. I thought the ring would be perfect for her—it’s simple and understated but still absolutely gorgeous. Everything she is.
“You . . .” She shakes her head. “You want to marry me?” she asks in disbelief, blinking at the ring, then me. How she can still react with surprise is amazing to me.
“Yes . . . I—”
“Oh my god. You want to marry me,” she yells so loudly that Muffin, who was asleep, gets up quickly and jumps onto the bed to see what’s going on.
“I take it that’s a yes.” I laugh as she launches herself at me, forcing me to my back and kissing me all over my face and lips.
“Yes, yes, yes . . . oh my god, I’m getting married.”
“We’re getting married.”
“Yes, we’re getting married . . . ,” she says quietly, then looks at her hand resting against my chest. “This is so beautiful.” She pauses to meet my gaze. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, gorgeous,” I murmur, bringing her face down toward me. I kiss her softly, then mutter, “Fuck me.” She sobs, dropping her forehead to my collarbone.
“This is . . . I’m so happy,” she cries, tucking her head under my chin and lying against my chest. “How did this happen?”
“You stole my heart and my breath the day you ran into me,” I say simply, and she pulls back, wiping away the tears on her cheeks.
“Who would have thought running with your eyes closed would lead to love?” she asks, and I grin at her, then look over at Muffin.
“Out, girl,” I command, and she huffs but jumps off the bed and heads out of the room, giving me the privacy I need to get my Christmas present from my girl.
Two years later
LEVI
“Hush,” I whisper against the side of my daughter’s head as I hold her against my chest. As her weight starts to finally settle against me and her cry dies down, I close my eyes and rest my head back against the headrest of the rocker.
“I would have gotten up with her,” Fawn says, and I open my eyes to find her standing in the doorway to the nursery, wearing a tank top that shows off her beautiful breasts and still slightly rounded stomach. I knew she would be gorgeous pregnant, and I was right. The extra weight still looks good on her, and knowing that her body provided life and protection for our child makes her even more beautiful in my eyes.
“You need to sleep, baby,” I say softly. At eight months old, Olivia is no longer nursing, but she is teething, which has led to many sleepless nights for her mom and me.
“So do you,” she murmurs, coming into the room. My little angel senses her mom is close, and she lifts her head from my shoulder.
“Mama.” She reaches out for Fawn, and I smile as she takes the baby from me, placing a kiss to her forehead.
“Were you having a cuddle with Dada?” Fawn asks her, and she looks at me with bright eyes that remind me of her mom.
“Dada.” She nods her head, and Fawn laughs.
“Yes, that’s your Dada,” Fawn agrees with a smile, and I pull her down into my lap. Then we sit there in the dark and rock our girl until she falls back to sleep.
Three years later
FAWN
Watching Olivia drop yet another piece of broccoli onto the floor, I sigh. I know she thinks Muffin is going to help her out by getting rid of the evidence of her uneaten vegetables, but unfortunately for her, Muffin hates broccoli more than she does.