“Here, Mama.” Beckett hands me the wrapped flowers. I count five white lilies and one pink. “The pink one is for my sister.”
Campbell stirs in her bassinette, and Royal pushes it closer to my bedside before lifting her out and placing her in my arms.
“You want up here, little man?” I ask.
Beckett nods, and Royal helps him.
“Thank you for the flowers, my love.” I lean forward as much as I can and kiss his forehead. He smells like glue and Play-Doh, which isn’t surprising, since he spent most of the day with his cousin, Haven, at Uncle Derek’s house.
“You’re welcome,” he says, in his sweet, little boy voice.
“You’re a big brother now,” Royal says in his best, stern father voice. “That’s a pretty big responsibility.”
I laugh. “I don’t even think he knows what responsibility means.”
Royal shrugs, smiling as he gazes down at his newborn daughter. “He’ll find out soon enough.”
“How much time are you taking off from the firm?” I ask.
Campbell came two weeks early, which is probably a good thing, given her size, but we weren’t expecting her, and it threw off our carefully laid plans.
Royal juts his chin and waves his hand. “Don’t even sweat it. I’ll be around as much as you need.”
I keep forgetting that he was made a junior partner last month, one of their youngest in the history of the firm. His boss, Richard Madsen, was a friend of one of Royal’s old law professors. Hired him fresh out of law school.
Dad was disappointed that he didn’t want to work at Rosewood and Rosewood, but he understood and respected the fact that Royal was called in a different direction.
Besides, it’s nice to get out of Rixton Falls.
The fresh start did us both good.
And it was too depressing to watch over half the town lose everything they had because of Brooks Abbott’s scheming ways. Dad and Derek wanted to take the case on, but it would’ve been a conflict of interest, so they stepped back, and we all watched as the Abbotts lost everything they ever had. Apparently the scheming started with Brooks’ now-deceased father, and the judge ordered Brenda to liquidate everything they had shortly before she left town for good.
It still wasn’t enough to cover everything those poor folks lost. Brooks is spending decades behind bars now. And if he’s lucky, he’ll be out in time to meet his first grandchild. Last I knew, Afton was raising their daughter in the basement apartment of her family’s home in Glidden.
Royal and I live in a sleepy little town now, Crestwood, an hour east of Rixton Falls. When we arrived, no one knew our names or our stories. We settled in, made friends with our new colleagues and neighbors, and left the past behind.
We have a beautiful life together, and now our little family is complete with Campbell. My heart is so full, and just when I think I’m all out of love to give, I look into my daughter’s sweet eyes and my chest bursts with a powerful, unconditional love.
“She’s gorgeous already.” Royal kisses the top of Campbell’s head. “Just like her mother.”
We expected her to come out with tufts of dark hair, like Beckett did, but it’s looking like she just might be a blonde, like her Aunt Daphne and her cousin, Haven.
“Your parents are on their way,” my husband says. “And I’ve called your sisters. They would like you to FaceTime them as soon as you’re feeling up to it.”
“Have you sent pictures?”
“Of course. About fifty so far.”
I laugh. “And Derek? When’s he coming?”
“He was going to drop Haven off at school and head over. He should be here in a couple of hours.”
“How’s everyone doing?” Our nurse comes in, beaming from ear to ear. She’s definitely a morning person who loves her job, and I can’t complain about that.
“Doing well,” I say. “Doing very well.”
Beckett reaches gingerly for the top of his sister’s head, petting her with soft, slow strokes. Royal and I exchange looks and my eyes water. It’s moments like these that I wish I had my camera ready. Instead, I’ll have to capture this and store the memory in my heart for a nostalgic rainy day.
Or a day when they’re tearing each other’s hair out and driving Royal and me crazy.
We’ll always have this moment.
“I’m going to love her forever,” Beckett says, placing his chubby cheek against her forehead. He stares up at me with Royal’s dark blue eyes, and I blink away the wetness that clouds my vision of my sweet angels.
Tomorrow morning, Campbell and I will get to go home. Royal will pick us up, and I’m sure he’ll drive ten miles per hour under the speed limit the entire way, with his hands at ten and two.
And when we get inside, we’ll introduce Campbell to our yellow lab, which Beckett named Marfa last year. He was trying to say Martha, like his favorite cartoon dog, but he couldn’t pronounce the ‘th,’ and it was too cute to fix.
After she meets her four-legged friend, we’ll show her to her yellow room. Royal insisted on a neutral nursery, just like he did with Beckett. We never knew what we were having either time, which killed the planner part of me, but I did it for him, because life rarely offers opportunities for good surprises.
“Mama, I’m hungry.” Beckett rubs his tummy and gives me sad eyes.
“I’ll take him to the food court. Come on, buddy.” Royal helps him off the bed and takes his little hand. “We’ll be back soon. Let’s let the girls get their beauty rest.”
My husband brings his hand to his mouth and blows me a kiss. Beckett copies. I blow one back to the boys I love more than anything in this whole wide world, and then I glance down at my daughter one more time.
I can’t decide who she looks like yet. Sometimes she looks like me, sometimes like Royal. And at the same time, she looks nothing like her brother. Genetics are funny that way.
Campbell is already fast asleep again. I adjust her swaddling and place her back in the bassinet, and I just watch.
I could watch her for hours.
All day, every day.
She’s the sweetest.
And me? I’m the luckiest.
Life may not always be a fairytale, but it doesn’t mean we can’t make our own happily-ever-after.
THE END
Books by Winter Renshaw
Acknowledgments
Thank you, thank you to everyone who made this book possible! To my readers, bloggers, ARC reviewers, and constant supporters – I can never thank you enough. I write for you!
Thank you to Valorie Clifton, editor, and proofreaders Janice Owen and Carey Sullivan, for the impeccable edits! Your willingness to flex to my schedule and fit me in at the last minute is immensely appreciated!
Thank you to Louisa Maggio of LM Creations, for whipping up one of the most beautiful covers I’ve ever laid eyes on (if I do say so myself)! The cover couldn’t be more perfect for this story and captured the essence of everything I wanted this story to represent. Working with you is always an absolute joy!
To Morgan Terry and Ashley Cestra – thank you for beta’ing Royal for me!! Your notes were tremendously helpful. If it weren’t for Morgan, Beckett would’ve been named Brookson. WHOOPS.
To my author friends – Sosie, Cora, Vanessa, DG, and so many others – thank you for the camaraderie and procrastinating FB chats. ;-)
Last, but not least, thank you to my husband, who assisted in my research and never once complained when I asked him the same questions over and over. You’re the best parole officer (and most patient husband) this side of the Pacific! Love.
BACHELOR
Rixton Falls Book 2
Copyright Page
COPYRIGHT 2016 WINTER RENSHAW
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COVER DESIGN: Love N. Books
EDITING: Valorie Clifton
PROOFREADING: Janice Owen and Carey Sullivan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or tran
smitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Description
I, Derek Rosewood, am never going to marry.
Ever. Again.
Fresh off the heels of a bitter divorce, there are only three things I give a sh*t about: my daughter, my career, and my bachelorhood.
An attorney by trade and happily married to my job, I save the drama for the courtroom and keep women at an arm’s length. Their fragile, sequined hearts are safer that way. And besides, I’m not in any condition to offer them the love and attention they so foolishly seek from me.
Believe me, I’m not what they need. Not after what I’ve been through.
It’s not until I’m assigned as conservator of the estate for an aloof, enigmatic heiress that I find my professional—and personal—boundaries pushed to the wayside. We’re all wrong for each other. Emotionally unavailable. Bitter. Jaded. And I’m supposed to look out for her best interests. Protect her.
But this wasn’t supposed to happen. And for that reason, I plead the fifth.
Chapter 1
Derek
“She’s not taking visitors today.” A woman with thin red lips and a raven bun smooths her hand down the front of her dress and straightens her spine. “You’ll have to come back another time.”
She attempts to shut the door before I can object, but I block it with the polished toe of my black Oxford.
“I’m her court-appointed conservator.” I retrieve a business card from an interior breast pocket, white with Rosewood and Rosewood’s logo across the top. “Attorney Derek Rosewood. She’s expecting me.”
The woman purses her lips, apprehensively taking the card from my hand. Her sharp stare moves between the embossed logo and my face.
“She’s indisposed.” The woman hands the card back like I’m some vacuum peddler. “Please phone before you stop by next time.”
“My secretary called. Yesterday. Spoke with a Thomas Gambrel, house manager.” I glance up at the monstrosity of an estate house. The mouth of the front entry threatens to swallow me whole. “I was told to stop by at two o’clock.”
I lift my wrist, pulling my suit jacket sleeve back to show her the face of my timepiece.
“Three minutes early,” I say. “But I’m more than willing to wait if Ms. Randall needs more time to make herself presentable.”
I keep a neutral face, a self-assured posture, and my opinions to myself. No one knows how long this guardianship will last, but if I’m to check on Serena Randall on a regular basis, it’s imperative that I’m on good terms with her staff. The last thing Rosewood and Rosewood, LLP needs is frivolous rumors tarnishing our good name. Too many attorneys have seen their careers crumble to pieces because their egos got the best of them in difficult moments.
I choose my battles. Always have. Always will.
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.” I inject a bit of lightness into my tone, hoping to break down this foolish defensiveness she has going on. I’m simply here to protect the estate and Ms. Randall.
The woman pauses, taking a sip of a breath and then releasing it all at once. “Eudora Darcy.”
She steps back and raises her chin.
“All right. Come inside and wait in the parlor. I’ll see what I can do.” Eudora swings the heavy door wide and motions for me to step in. She doesn’t try to hide her displeasure, but I don’t let it bother me. Besides, it takes a lot more than a smug look on a sour, wrinkled face to spoil my mood.
I remove my hat and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. It’s a postcard-worthy April day outside. Oaks are budding. Robins are singing. Tulips are in bloom. It’s a goddamned Disney movie.
But in here, I can barely see past my outstretched hand.
Dust and dankness fill my lungs and tickle my nose, and I stifle a cough. From what I’ve gathered, this is a centuries-old family estate, and Serena’s parents are requiring that she take up residence here for the duration of the financial conservatorship.
“Wait in there, please.” Eudora points to a room with shadowed outlines of furniture before taking a few steps and clicking on a small lamp. “I’ll do my best to send Ms. Randall out shortly.”
With folded hands, she drifts away, her shoes silently padding along the marble floors.
And so I wait.
A minute passes, then another, then ten more. I retrieve my phone and squint at the bright screen in the dark room. One pathetic bar. I try and send a text to my legal secretary regarding a stack of files I left on my desk this morning. The text fails twice but goes through the third time.
My phone dings as incoming texts fill my screen all at once. Within seconds, my thumb hovers over two topless selfies from some woman I hooked up with a week ago. What is it with women thinking a topless selfie fixes everything? I haven’t called her for a reason. And that reason is because our little rendezvous meant nothing. It was fun but now I’m over it. I could have sworn I made myself perfectly clear when she was choking on my cock for the third time that night. I don’t do repeats. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do the whole boyfriend thing.
For fuck’s sake, have a little respect for yourself, Amanda.
I delete her photos and spot a copy of Great Expectations lying on the coffee table. Judging by the cover, I’m willing to bet it’s a first edition. The thing is probably a hundred and fifty years old, and the Randalls have it sitting out like some coffee table book they picked up at Barnes and Noble.
Belcourt Manor is in the middle of nowhere, somewhere between Rixton Falls and Manhattan and definitely off the beaten path. Surrounded by lush, green thickets and groves of majestic oaks, its heyday was certainly in a bygone era.
Despite looking like the kind of place Jay Gatsby could’ve thrown a ridiculously amazing party, I can’t imagine this is the sort of place a twenty-something heiress would want to spend her days. But to each their own.
“May I get you something to drink, Mr. Rosewood?” Eudora returns. “Ms. Randall has had a change of heart. She’ll be down shortly.”
“What does the lady of the house drink?” I tuck my phone into my pocket, clearing my throat.
Eudora’s lips button and smirk before her face washes in a void expression. “I suppose it depends on the time of day. At this hour, she takes her tea. Would you like yours hot or iced?”
“Iced. Thank you.”
She disappears, and I scan the parlor. The faint light the lamp gives off is enough to highlight the thick tapestries covering the two-story window behind the sofa, and a gilded mirror covers the wall behind me. My hand skims along the sofa beneath my thighs. Crushed velvet. Soft as fur.
Growing bored and slightly annoyed at trying to see through all this darkness, I rise and move toward the window, yanking the tapestry to the side. The room floods with light and specks of dust, sending a quick sear to my eyes. I squint, shielding my eyes with my hand, and turn back toward the doorway.
And then the first thing I see is her hair.
Golden red. Lustrous.
“That tapestry is an Auclair. Sixteenth century. It’s called Hunt of Pegasus. But by all means, please, put your hands all over it.” Her voice slices through the thickened air.
And then I see her eyes.
Bluest blue. Lit from within.
“Serena.” I move toward her, my hand extended as I struggle to breathe at t
he sight of her. “Derek Rosewood. Your conservator. Pleasure to meet you.”
“My financial conservator,” she corrects me. Our hands meet, and hers are delicate, unworked. “I don’t need a minder. In fact, I don’t need a financial minder either, but apparently, you make a string of bad decisions, and the next thing you know, your father is cutting you off and sentencing you to life in this dungeon and your stepmother is ringing her attorney on speed dial.”
“Shall we?” I point toward the sofa and let her take a seat first.
Eudora appears from around the corner, placing a small tray on the coffee table before us. A steaming porcelain tea kettle and a sachet of tea rest on one end, and a glass of iced tea in a crystal chalice rest on the other.
“Sugar?” Serena’s eyes meet mine.
“Please.”
She lifts one lump with a tiny spoon and deposits it in my glass, giving it a quick stir. When she’s finished, she clinks the spoon on the rim three times and places it to the side before handing me the glass.
I watch as she prepares her drink with slow, deliberate movements, like she has all the time in the world.
And I suppose she does.
“Mm.” She brings the teacup to her mouth, taking in a careful sip, and I realize I have yet to touch mine. “This sofa once belonged to Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor. She was a family friend of my great-grandparents. You know, King Edward the eighth abdicated his throne for her. Which is insane. And romantic.”
“I think I heard that once. Yes,” I lie. I know zero about British royal history, but I can bullshit with the best of them.
“The Queen Mother hated Wallis. Drama knows no social status.”
“Or some people are drawn to it. Moths to flames. Can’t help themselves.”
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