Page 77 of Make You Mine

“Ah, well.” I sink into the chair beside the bed with a groan more theatrical than necessary, rubbing my lower back like a man twice my age. “You were right then, Widget. The bloody thingdoeshave magical healing powers. I’ll have to give it a raise.”

That earns a delighted squeal from Willow, and even Emmett lets out a gurgle of approval. Amerie chuckles low under her breath, and I can tell it hurts her ribs to laugh, but she doesn’tstop. She reaches for my hand, threading her fingers through mine.

We spend the next few hours like that—talking, dozing, holding hands, holding each other. Willow makes up stories with her rabbit, Emmett naps on and off in his mother’s arms, and Amerie manages to keep her eyes open long enough to tease me twice and call me a sentimental sap once. I don’t even deny it.

Because Iama sap. For them. For this.

I’d burn the bloody world to ash before I let anyone threaten what we’ve built again.

And as the sun begins to rise behind the gray clouds from outside the hospital window, casting the room in a pale wash of gold, I know that no promotion, no job, no bastard of a boss could ever compare to this.

My family is my home, and thankfully, it’s whole again.

Eight weeks later…

The first thing I hear as I pull into the front drive is Willow’s laughter floating through the open garden gate. It’s a proper warm day, sun hanging lazy overhead, grass buzzing with the sort of life that only turns up when summer rolls in. I linger in the car for a moment, one hand on the key, just listening.

She’s out there with Ciara, the new girl she’s befriended from school. They’re darting around the garden with a bouncy ball, shrieking with joy like it’s the best day they’ve ever had. For Willow, maybe it is. I reckon it’s for the best that her closest companion these days is someone her own age, not a nanny old enough to drive a car and hide a knife behind her back. Just thesight of her running free, cheeks flushed and braids swinging, is enough to ease any tension in my shoulders.

I leave them to it and slip inside. The house is pleasantly cool in contrast to the warmth outdoors. It smells faintly of coffee and lemon cleaner—Amerie’s touch, no doubt—and the silence is a comfortable one.

No tension. No lurking dread. Just peace.

Upstairs, I poke my head into Emmett’s nursery. The lad’s flat out on his back, one hand curled around the corner of his blanket. Now ten months, he’s taken his first steps lately, getting cheeky with it too, toddling toward trouble faster than we can handle. But now he’s peaceful, his breaths gentle.

My heart tugs at the sight.

I move on, stopping outside Amerie’s office. Her fingers are clattering away on the keyboard, a confident rhythm that tells me she’s in the zone.

I knock gently. “Guess who?”

There’s a pause, followed by a beat of silence, and then her chair scrapes back. Her footsteps race to the door, and when it swings open, her face lights up with the sort of smile that never fails to undo me.

“You’re home early!” She throws her arms around me.

I wrap her up tight and press a kiss to her lips.

“Keep it in your pants, love,” I tease, smirking. “It’s still daylight hours.”

She shoves at my chest with a laugh. “You play too much! You’re the one ambushing me like this.”

“Couldn’t resist.” I stroll past her into the office, noting the mess of papers, the empty mug, and the blinking cursor still waiting on the screen. “What’s the occasion then? Manuscript behaving?”

“You already know the occasion. Today’s the day. It’s off.”

“Off where?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“Off to the publisher. Officially submitted. It’s done. Finito.”

“Thought as much,” I say, sliding my phone from my pocket. “Which is why I figured now would be the time.”

“The time for what?” she asks warily, eyebrows knitting together in bemusement.

I hold the phone up so she can see. On the screen: digital plane tickets, booked and confirmed.

Her breath catches. “What’s this?”

“We’re going away. All four of us,” I say. “We leave Saturday.”

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