Jagged

“Love that you think so, darlin’.”

Finally, I shut up and held on to my man.

He held me back.

We did this for a while, that was to say, we did it until Ham was done doing it.

“We gonna stand here huggin’ in the hall all night or are you gonna pick where we start? Break in the livin’ room or fuck in bed?” he asked.

A shiver slid through me and I pulled my head back to catch his eyes.

“Dining room table,” I gave him my decision on an alternate location and I watched his eyes flash in a way I liked a whole lot.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“I wanna smell my roses while you’re inside me,” I whispered and I got another flash before he dipped his head and his mouth was on mine.

“You got it, cookie,” he said there.

And he was right.

I did.

I had it.

I had everything I needed.

For the first time in my life, even though with the life I lived I never thought it would happen. And for the first time in my life, it happened without me having to work my ass off to get even close to it.

In other words, for the first time in my life, I just plain had everything.

* * *

“Cookie?” Ham called

We were in our bed in our new bedroom, my new-old one. We were spooning and I was nearly asleep.

Still, I had the scent of roses lingering in my nostrils and the feel of Ham still lingering between my legs.

“Yeah, darlin’?” I answered, my voice sleepy.

“Just sayin’, want that day to come soon that you got my name so you best get on that.”

I smiled into the dark.

“You got it, mein herr,” I teased.

His arm around me grew tighter.

“Babe?” he called again.

“Right here, honey.”

“You take my name, you do it knowin’ you’ll never lose it.”

My hand found his at my belly. I linked my fingers through, feeling the band of his ring biting lightly into my flesh, and I sighed a contented sigh.

Then I replied, “I know.”

“And you know what it means.”

I knew what it meant to Ham.

Ham giving me his protection. His money. His love.

Him.

“I know what it means,” I confirmed and I did.

I knew it meant everything.

So I didn’t yet have everything.

But I was going to.

I felt Ham’s face burrow into the back of my hair.

“Zara Reece,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he whispered back.

“Sounds good.”

“Fuck yeah, it does.”

“Ham?” I called.

“Right here, cookie.”

“I’m uncertain I can take you gettin’ any awesomer,” I admitted.

His body stilled for a brief moment before it started shaking then the rumble began and, shortly after that, his laughter filled the room.

I smiled again against my pillow.

Still chuckling, he pulled me even closer and muttered, “You got a lifetime to get used to it.”

I did.

I finally did.

Thank God.

Chapter Nineteen

Survivors

One week and one day later…

“This is gross.”

These words were spoken by Zander, who was standing in Ham’s and my kitchen and squirting devilled egg yolks through a pastry bag into the waiting halves of hardboiled egg whites.

The house was filled with people, every available surface groaning with food. The bar separating the kitchen from the dining room/living room also had food, a big devil’s food cake on a tall cake stand (Xenia’s favorite), a massive spray of red roses, and all this was intermingled with framed photographs of Xenia.

It was Xenia’s memorial party.

Zander might have missed his mom’s funeral but when I told Aunt Wilona about Kami’s idea, we agreed that it should happen and I gave the green light for plans for liftoff so I could have this and Xenia could have this, but more, so Zander could.

“It’s not gross. It’s delicious,” I contradicted Zander.

He squirted some devilled yolks into an egg, didn’t do a very good job of it, and I didn’t care. Then he looked up at me.

“I don’t like eggs,” he informed me.

“No?” I asked, loving every smidgeon of information I learned about my nephew, even the knowledge he didn’t like eggs, and I didn’t care one bit if that made me a freak.

He kept sharing the wealth. “My breakfasts of choice are pancakes or waffles or Nona’s hash brown casserole.”

Although I found the concept of Aunt Wilona’s hash brown casserole intriguing, I returned, “Eggs make you strong. Rocky Balboa drank raw ones before going out for a run.”

Zander scrunched up his nose.

“Raw ones?” he asked.

I nodded.

“That’s gross… er,” he decreed, then asked, “Rocky who?”

“Rocky Balboa,” I answered.

“Who’s that?” he queried and I blinked.

“You don’t know Rocky Balboa?”

Zander shook his head.

Therefore, as any conversation about Rocky Balboa was wont to make you do, I tipped my head back and cried in a deep guttural tone, “Adrian!”

When I was done shouting, I knew eyes had come to me but I only had eyes for my nephew, who was