We stand in each other’s arms, looking into each other’s eyes in wonder.
“We came so close—” I start to say.
“To losing each other,” Marian finishes.
“Never again,” I tell her fiercely. “I can’t live without you, Marian.”
She pats her stomach. “Us neither.”
I take her hand and lead her to the bed, where for the next couple of hours, my only purpose is to show Marian how very much I love her.
Epilogue
Six months Later
Declan
“I can’t believe you got yourself kicked out of the delivery room,” Ace says as we pace the waiting room together.
I stop pacing to throw him a dirty look. “I was just trying to help Marian.”
Ace throws his head back to laugh. “You were making inappropriate jokes.”
“Marian needed a distraction from the pain.” Okay, I admit that I might have gone too far with the locker room jokes. The doctor had politely asked me to wait outside the delivery room. “I’m glad that Lexi is in there with her, but I feel cheated.”
I’ve had permanent anxiety in the last couple of months as the process by which our baby would come into the world dawned on me. The thought of Marian in pain was enough for me to break out into a cold sweat. Now that I think about it, I see that I’ve worked myself up to an almost nervous breakdown. No wonder I behaved like a lunatic in there.
“It’s been hours, hasn’t it?” I ask Ace.
He glances down at his watch. “I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.”
I think good thoughts. Marian is strong, and she was so excited and looking forward to natural birth. The double doors to the waiting room burst open without warning, and Marian’s doctor walks in.
The wide smile on his face tells me that all is well. “Congratulations! Come and meet your new baby boy.”
I’m out of there like a shot. The doctor and Ace’s laughter follow me. I don’t care about anything except the fact that I’m a dad. By the time I get to Marian’s room, I can hardly see from the tears blinding me.
Lexi pats my shoulder as she leaves the room.
I stop at the door and wipe away my tears. Marian is sitting up in bed with our baby in her arms. She smiles. She looks tired but happy. I approach the bed and kiss Marian. Then I look down at the baby.
“He’s perfect,” I whisper, completely awestruck. “And so tiny.”
She laughs softly. “Do you want to hold him?”
“Yes.” I carefully take him from his mom and hold him up. I kiss his forehead. His eyes are tightly shut. I switch my gaze to Marian. “I love you so much, mom.”
“I love you too, dad,” she says.
“Do you know how happy you’ve made me?” I ask her.
“I have a pretty good idea.”
THE END
Dear reader,
First of all, thank you so much for reading my books! It’s passionate readers like you that allow me to live my dream and do the thing I love most on earth, which is writing books and entertaining people!
Do you want more of this hot firefighter world? Then make sure to get your copy of “Unexpected Heat” now! This time it’s Brad’s and Mila’s love story!
Get your copy here!
If you want to read it first – I’ve got you covered! I’ve included a preview of the book on the next pages! ;-)
Preview: Unexpected Heat
Chapter 1
Mila
I love my studio, and right now, it’s super tidy with everything on my desk arranged neatly and the easels standing side by side. My gaze falls on my three work-in-progress portraits, and I know they’ll soon go to the trash can. They look terrible.
A heaviness comes over my body.
How long will it last, this inability to work? The last time I turned out a good piece was almost a year ago. Thankfully, I’ve been prolific over the last couple of years, taking in portrait jobs that have earned me a nice nest egg. Money is not an issue.
It is the growing hole in my chest where my heart should be and the feeling of restlessness that can only be relieved by my work. And yet, I can’t paint. What if my ability to paint never comes back? Panic spreads in my chest.
Painting is the one thing that has always belonged to me, that kept me sane no matter what was going on in the rest of my life. Clay took with him my self-esteem and my ability to love again. But worse than those things, is that since the day he left, I haven’t painted. It’s as if my hands have forgotten how to move the paintbrush across the canvas, and my brain can’t fathom what is expected of it.
The doorbell rings. The sudden noise jolts me out of my thoughts. A rare intrusion. I tick off all possibilities. There is only one person who would come to my house without calling first. The one person I never want to see again. The cause of my painter’s block.
I leave my studio on the second story and sprint down the stairs. I peer through the keyhole. Clay’s dark eyes stare back as if he can see me. With a sigh, I fling the door open.
“What do you want?” I say with no pretense of politeness. We are beyond that now. With the divorce final, there’s nothing to bind us together anymore.
“Is that any way to greet your husband?” he says and leans on the door frame.
Anger coils itself around my insides. I inhale deeply. I cannot show him how angry he still makes me. “Ex-husband,” I point out, my tone casual.
He has bags around his eyes. Once, that would have made my heart squeeze and brought out my protective feelings. Now, I observe him impartially. As one would a stranger.
I take in his bushy eyebrows, long hair that
