Page 205 of Boss of the Year
And just before it hit—when the pleasure crested and the world blurred—I let it go. I leteverythinggo.
“I love you.”
The words broke from my lips on a cry, and the second they did, his whole body seized.
And Lucas Lyons, family patriarch, oldest son, master of his carefully curated universe, lost control.
He came with a groan that echoed against the trees and off the water, like a wild call to bury himself in me and never come out. “Marie,” he called again and again into my neck, my cheek, every part of me his mouth could reach. “Marie.”
He was still trying to catch his breath.
“I love you, Lucas,” I said again as I smoothed his hair and stroked his face, urging him to stay with me. “I do.”
“My God, Marie,” he said just before his lips found mine one last time. “I don’t think love even begins to cover what we are.”
He sounded almost sad. But for the first time since I’d seen him, I smiled back, soft and content.
“Maybe,” I told him, lost in my own sweet haze. “But it will have to do.”
When we had finally caught our breaths, Lucas helped me put myself back together, then guided me back to the main trail in silence, as if neither of us wanted to disturb the odd sense of finality that had settled over us.
There were still things to say.
Truths that had to be told.
As we reached the main road, I opened my mouth, prepared to tell him the biggest secret I had, the most important one of all. Unfortunately, I was met with a rueful, surprisingly boyish expression that made me want to kiss him all over again. It was very distracting.
“I should probably apologize for not wearing a condom,” he said. “Though, would you think less of me if I said I’m not sorry at all? That a caveman part of me kind of loves the idea of you barefoot and pregnant in my kitchen?”
Oh, God. Did the man have ESP?
“It’s…fine,” I managed. “I knew what we were doing.”
This was it. This was when I should explain the return to loose gowns, the nursery I was building on the top floor, and the baby names I had only just started to contemplate as I fell asleep each night.
But before I could find the words, the sound of wheels on cobblestones interrupted us. A Peugeot appeared around the bend, driven by Elise Favreau, a local woman who sold herbs at the weekly market.
“Marie!” the older woman called out cheerfully through her window. “I have a new tea for you at the market. Raspberry leaf—it’s very good for the baby,n’est-ce pas? Come to my stand, and I give you a drink, okay?”
She drove on with a wave, leaving Lucas and me like statues on the side of the road.
Lucas turned slowly, his face suddenly pale.
“Baby?” he asked. “What…baby?”
42
RASPBERRY AND ROSE TEA
*use hot water, but don’t boil, to keep it sweet.
This was the real bomb. Not Lucas’s shouts at the river or even our mutual confessions of love.
The word “baby” hung in the air between us, as physical as the little bump growing under my skirt.
For the first time, I couldn’t read any part of his expression. It wasn’t closed—in fact, it was more open than maybe I’d ever seen. The combination was the mystery. Shock, certainly, but something else too. Something that sent my hand instinctively to the small curve below my waist.
Lucas’s eyes followed my hand. Above us, the first bells from the abbey called out across the valley, a clear signal to move on with the morning.
