There’s a reason he’s such a wildly successful rockstar.
Eric King knows how to put on a show. And he’s all mine.
I sigh contently as I watch Eric change into warm, dry clothes.
“You better get out of your wet clothes too, babe,” he says, starting to unload my bags next.
I snort a laugh and join him at my suitcases. “Always trying to get me out of my clothes.”
Eric stops his unpacking to wrap his arms around me. “Can you blame me?” he asks, before kissing me so thoroughly my toes curl.
No need to change into dry clothes. The inferno Eric just lit inside me has me all toasty and warm. We stand chest-to-chest, all thoughts of unpacking forgotten.
How I love this man.
I gaze up at him admiring the view while he tucks my hair behind my ears, lovingly staring into my eyes.
I can’t believe how much Eric has been through, or how far he’s come. When we met, he was a shadow of the man before me now, but I didn’t love him any less. I just knew he was the one for me.
It was love at first sight, something I hadn’t believed in until I met him.
And Eric . . . he’s certainly someone worth believing in.
Watching him battle and beat his demons has made me love him even more. I know he’s always saying that I'm the reason he’s clean and sober now, but he put in that hard work himself. I just held his hand along the way—just like I’ll continue to forever.
From somewhere down the hall, the sound of a seven-year-old boy excitedly squealing echoes closer. It breaks the spell we’re under, but in a good way.
Eric and I both burst into laughter at the same time.
“Weren’t those kids adorable together downstairs?” I ask. “They’re going to have the best time here.”
Eric nods. “I know. I’m so glad Ryan will have a buddy to hang out with.”
“And it’ll give him a chance to practice being a big brother, too,” I add. “I loved spending Christmas with my mom, but I always imagined it would be fun to have siblings to share it with. You know, creeping downstairs together to see the presents under the tree . . . digging through the chocolate in your stocking together . . . those kinds of things are always sweeter when you can share them.”
“And now you get to share those things with me,” Eric answers, playfully.
I roll my eyes and gently pinch his side. He reacts with typical Easy E dramatics. My comedic fiancé falls back onto the bed as though I’d inflicted some kind of massive injury. The blankets poof up around him, swallowing him up.
He holds his hands to his heart and moans so loudly that half the lodge can probably hear him. “First the snowball fight and now this? The only thing that will save me is a kiss!”
Even though the love of my life is acting like a total goofball, I still find it hilarious.
“A kiss you say?”
He gives a pitiful nod, extending his arms toward me. “A really good one.”
I lift my eyebrows. “You know Santa doesn’t give naughty people presents.”
He props himself up on his elbows, his silver-flecked irises pouring so sincerely into mine that I freeze at the foot of the bed. There’s not a hint of mischief in his typically sly expression now. Instead, he looks almost somber. I would’ve thought something was wrong if he hadn't been faintly smiling. “What kind of present could I ever want, Morgan? I’ve got you. Being with you is the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”
Heat surges up my cheeks as I grab at one of the pillows he’d tossed aside and hide my face behind it. I peek over the top to find him still looking at me, though his typical impish gleam has returned to his eyes.
“I mean look at you, woman!” he adds with a wily grin. “Only a crazy man would want anything more!”
Laughing, I smack him with the pillow. He catches my arm, pulling me against him until we’re rolling over the sheets. He pins my arms over my head, descending once for a chaste kiss.
“You’re worse than the kids,” I tease. “You’ve always got some sort of prank taking shape in that handsome head of yours.”
Again, Eric steals a kiss. He continues to speak, punctuating every other word with a light peck. “Speaking of kids . . . when are you and I going to make some of those?”
My breath lodges sharply in my lungs, but he’s still got a big grin plastered on his face. This is clearly just another joke.
Shifting my hips, I manage to catch his wrists in my hands and push him over so that I’m on top now. I pin him to the bed and lean over him, stealing a victorious kiss of my own. “I guess when you’re done being a rockstar and I'm done being a supermodel,” I say easily.
“Well . . .” he sighs, “at least we know our future kids will be gorgeous.”
I shoot him a feisty smirk. “As long as they get their looks from me.”
His head falls back as he howls with laughter, pulling me against him so that we’re rolling across the sheets again.
Though I'm laughing along with him, the comment has settled somewhere in the back of my mind where it continues to simmer.
Will Eric and I ever be able to sit still long enough to have children? Or will it be the sacrifice fame demands?
A part of me has always felt like I’ve been searching for something since I lost my mother. Recently I’ve been wondering if having children of my own might fill that void. But if I continue with this
