God, this man.
He was so good.
Sometimes, I still caught myself thinking I didn’t deserve him. Then again, after everything I’d been through… maybe I did. Maybe a man like Cade Hightower was my reward for all the darkness. The final stop on the Imogen Warner International Tour of Misery.
If he was the end game…
He made all the previous stops worth it.
“I’m not sure,” I blurted, cheeks aflame. “I never thought I wanted them. Not because I don’t like kids. I just… I never thought Icouldwant them. You know? I never thought I’d ever settle down long enough.”
His eyes softened. “But you’re settled.”
“I guess I am.”
His pause was careful. He didn’t want to push me into anything. “And now that you are?”
I thought about it. I didn’t think for long; I didn’t have to. The answer was right there, staring me in the face, as I thought about my future.
“Now…” I whispered. “I’m thinking kids would be good.”
His eyes flared with emotion. “Yeah?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“How many?”
How many?
I blinked. “I don’t know. How many do you want?”
“As many as you’ll give me.”
That was a freaking good answer.
A freakinggreatanswer.
“Sounds perfect,” I whispered, lifting up onto my tiptoes.
He met me halfway, stooping down to claim my lips in a long, lingering kiss. The kind that stole my breath and made my stomach somersault like an Olympic gymnast.
Just the way I liked it.
* * *
When the party broke up, Cade and I were two of the last to leave. If I had to guess, Sally and Agatha would be the final stragglers. They knew how to close out a shindig. Gigi had left hours ago with the boys — driven home to The Sea Witch by none other than the handsome professor. (Much to our collective delight.)
Gwen and Graham stood in the doorway, waving goodbye as we all filed down their front steps. Flo and Des lead the way. Agatha and Sally brought up the rear. I was sandwiched somewhere in the middle between Cade and Sawyer, trying not to trip after downing one too many shots of tequila.
We all spotted the moving truck at the same time. It was difficult to miss, parked in front of Gwen’s historic center-front Colonial, hazard lights flashing as its contents were unloaded by several burly men.
Scratch that.
It wasn’t parked in front of Gwen’s. It was actually in front of the stunning Victorian next door. The movers were schlepping boxes down the gangplank, up the walk, into the house. Their muscles strained under the weight. I couldn’t help noticing that most of the boxes said BOOKS on the sides in thick black sharpie.
Hmm.
Overseeing the move-in process was a woman around my age, with dark hair swept up into a messy bun atop her head and thick-framed, nerdy glasses perched on the tip of her ski-slope nose. She was toting a box of her own, this one labeled PRIORITY. Her fingers were even more ink stained than Desmond’s.