Love the One You Hate

by Grey, R. S.

  These ten years have been filled with bouts of suffering and periods of joy. I’ll never forget the day we officially adopted Edward and the day we brought his brother Cory home as well, though Nicholas wasn’t on board for that initially. I think it’s natural for people to want biological children of their own, but I never saw it as an either-or scenario. I wanted to adopt and try to conceive naturally.

  Our boys joined our family—they’re ours, officially—but pregnancies proved more difficult. We’ve tried and failed. All we have to show for it is a dozen empty prenatal pill bottles, a mountain’s worth of negative pregnancy tests, and years’ worth of painful disappointments.

  I wonder if all that is behind us now. I can’t help but hope.

  Nicholas doesn’t know I took a pregnancy test last night.

  Even though I know it’s futile, I still keep a few on hand just in case.

  My period never came two months ago, but I didn’t get excited. I didn’t even let it faze me. But then it didn’t come again last month or this month either, and so I finally allowed myself to take a test last night.

  Two pink lines crisscrossed before my eyes and I started laughing so hysterically I couldn’t stop. My laughter turned into tears. I took another test and it proved as positive as the first one, which means I’m somewhere around twelve or thirteen weeks along—pregnant after so many years of trying—and Nicholas doesn’t know.

  He won’t find out until tonight.

  “What do you two have planned for the evening?” Cornelia asks.

  Nicholas winks at me. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  Cornelia and I lock eyes, and she shrugs. “Sorry, I tried.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “It’s fine. I knew he wouldn’t let it slip anyway.”

  She stands and reaches to take the newspaper from the table so she can finish reading it out in the garden, where I’ll join her once Nicholas leaves to go sailing with the boys. I love spending our summers here at Rosethorn. I love soaking up every precious moment I have with Cornelia, and I find myself secretly hoping the baby growing inside me is a little girl we can name after her. I want it so badly I can barely manage a breath.

  “Are you okay?” Nicholas asks, drawing my attention.

  “Fine.”

  “You’re teary-eyed.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Allergies.”

  He doesn’t quite believe me, and his expression proves it.

  “You’re not telling me something.”

  I huff out a laugh. I mean, honestly, I’ve kept a secret from him for less than twenty-four hours and already I’m crumbling?!

  I shoot to my feet as Patricia comes into the room to start clearing breakfast. “It’s nothing.”

  Nicholas’ brows shoot up. “Nothing?”

  “Yes. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  I take off running toward the stairs, knowing full well he’ll get up and chase after me. I make it up and around the second-floor landing and halfway down the hall toward our room before he finally catches me.

  “Don’t!” I squeal, losing myself to a fit of laughter as he hauls me up and off my feet.

  “Tell me what you’re hiding.”

  “Not until tonight.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  I mime my fingers turning a lock over my lips.

  He smirks deviously. “There are ways I could convince you.”

  Then he drops a kiss to my lips and continues on like that all the way to our room. I’m putty in his hands, now more than ever.

  I know the boys are waiting. They’re likely already down at the front door with all their sailing gear, but for a moment, it’s only Nicholas and me in our room as he shuts the door and locks it behind us.

  “Maren,” he murmurs, kissing a trail down the side of my neck. “We don’t keep secrets.”

  “You’re the one who won’t tell me what we’re doing tonight,” I protest teasingly.

  “I’d tell you if I thought you actually wanted to know,” he insists.

  I laugh as he tosses me back on the bed and comes down to press his weight against me, holding me captive.

  “Well, can’t you see that I might want to surprise you too?”

  “I’m not a patient man. If you have a gift for me, I want it now.”

  He takes each of my hands in his and pins them onto the bed, then he sits up to look down at me. I have no doubt I look like a mess with my hair spilling out around me and no makeup on yet.

  He stares down at me as adoringly as ever.

  I try to break out of his hold but he tightens his grip, his wedding band biting into my wrist almost painfully.

  “Nicholas,” I say, catching his attention and drawing it back up to my face.

  Our eyes lock and I’m reminded of that boy in the portrait. I wonder if our son or daughter will have raven hair as dark as his. A tear slips down my cheek, and Nicholas’ expression turns troubled. He loosens his grip slightly, making to move off of me.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  It’s such a startling revelation, words I never thought I’d be able to say aloud. I’ve said the word plenty of times—she’s pregnant and she’s pregnant and she’s pregnant—but never I’m pregnant. Never us. Not until now.

  Nicholas doesn’t move a single muscle. I think I’ve royally shocked him.

  “Say something.”

  He shakes his head subtly, back and forth. “Tell me again.”

  I smile and sniff back my own tears. “I’m pregnant.”

  In an instant, he rolls up and off me, turning us so that we lie side by side facing each other. He lifts my shirt and looks down at my navel as if expecting a huge bump.

  “He’s in there.”

  Nicholas’ eyes snap up to mine. “He?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He, she—I’m not sure. Just ten minutes ago, I wanted a girl so badly so we could name her Cornelia, but a boy would be so wonderful too. We already know what to expect with boys, and we haven’t done such a horrible job with Cory and Edward, have we?”

  He wipes a tear off my cheek and smiles. “I don’t care one bit. Either way, I’ll be happy.”

  His hand drags along my stomach and I shiver instinctively.

  “Should I cancel sailing? Hang here? Should we go to the doctor?”

  “No, no. Take the boys. They’ll be so sad if you cancel. I’ll call and schedule an appointment for this week.”

  It takes some convincing before he lets me get up. He wants to see the test, so I pull it out of my makeup drawer and show him and there are more tears, an embarrassing amount, but well…we’ve waited so long for this moment. A bit of emotion is warranted, I suppose.

  After he leaves for the club with the boys and I compose myself as best as possible, I carry a cup of tea out into the garden and walk toward the bench where Cornelia sits looking out at the ocean.

  I don’t say a word as I take the seat beside her. She and I are good at silence. Neither one of us gets nearly enough of it with the boys running around the house.

  I sip my tea and watch the waves crashing against the shore.

  There’s a cloudless blue sky overhead, perfect for sailing. I already know they will have a good day out on the water.

  I take another sip of tea and then Cornelia’s hand reaches out to touch mine.

  I know she’s reading my mood. I know she’s been aware of how jittery I’ve felt all morning. I let her hand rest on mine for a moment, calming me, and then I take it and lift it up so I can flatten it against my fledgling bump. It’s a silent confession, and when her breath hitches, I know she realizes what I’m trying to share with her.

  She turns toward me, and her eyebrows tug together over watery blue eyes.

  I smile and nod, giving her all the answer she needs.

  “How?” she whispers.

  I shake my head and shrug. “A miracle?”

  She nods in sincere agreement then turns her attention back toward the ocean, dabbing tears from th
e corners of her eyes. She keeps her hand on mine, calming my shaky nerves.

  I’ve always been grateful to Cornelia for the ways in which she changed my life, but never more acutely than in this moment as we sit in silence watching the waves come and go, together as a family, once and for all.

  I hope you enjoyed your stay at Rosethorn with Nicholas and Maren! Keep reading for an extended excerpt of my #1 bestselling romantic comedy The Beau & the Belle.

  SYNOPSIS

  Beau Fortier starred in most of my cringe-worthy teenage fantasies.

  I met him when I was a junior in high school, a time that revolved exclusively around bad hair, failed forays into flirting, and scientific inquiries into which brand of toilet paper worked best for stuffing bras.

  That is, until Beau moved into the small guest house just beyond my bedroom window.

  A 24-year-old law student at Tulane, Beau was as mysterious to me as second base (both in baseball and in the bedroom). He was older. Intimidating. Hot. Boys my age had chicken legs and chubby cheeks. Beau had calloused hands and a jaw cut from steel. Our interactions were scarce—mostly involving slight stalking on my end—and yet deep down, I desperately hoped he saw me as more of a potential lover than a lovesick loser.

  Turns out, I was fooling myself. My fragile ego learned that lesson the hard way.

  Now, ten years later, we’re both back in New Orleans, and guess who suddenly can’t take his eyes off little ol’ me.

  My old friend, Mr. Fortier.

  But things have changed. I’m older now—poised and confident. My ego wears a bulletproof vest. The butterflies that once filled my stomach have all perished.

  When I was a teenager, Beau warned me to guard my heart.

  Let’s hope he knows how to guard his.

  Prologue

  I came tonight with the intention of reconnecting with a ghost from my past, but the woman standing a few feet away from me is no ghost. She’s flesh and blood, rose-colored cheeks and golden blonde hair. It falls down her back, the same length it was a decade ago, except now the curls aren’t wild and free. Even with her mask, I know it’s her the second I spot her from across the room. The top of her dress is tight, fitted to her curves, but the skirt floats around her like a cloud. I see enough hints of her younger self to know my old friend is in there somewhere, but so much has changed. Her cheekbones seem imperceptibly higher; a face that used to be round and sweet is now heart-shaped and demure. My stomach squeezes tight when I see the sparkle in her eyes that seems to whisper, The rules have changed. Back then, her beauty was irrelevant, like a delicate work of art tucked safely behind museum glass. The thought never entered my mind to cross the velvet rope—she was too young, I was too old…

  But now she’s too close, and she’s leaning closer.

  Chapter One

  Beau

  I’ve stood here before.

  It’s been quite a while, but the old colonial-style house looks the same as I remember. Broad fluted columns rise imposingly, like bars, as if to warn away those who don’t belong. The ancient wrought-iron fencing matches the ornate filigree that decorates the otherwise subdued exterior of the building. It belongs in the background of Gone with the Wind, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see a southern debutante leaning out from a half-shuttered window, petticoat rustling, fan waving. Hi mister, are you here to see little ol’ me?

  It’s one of the most famous homes in the New Orleans Garden District. Tourists dawdle in front of it during their self-guided audio tours, oohing and aahing as they learn about its history. I have it memorized. The home was built back in the 1840s after a number of plantations in the area were divided and sold off. Men made wealthy from cotton and sugar snatched up massive plots as a way to escape the stacked townhomes of the French Quarter. One of those men was my great-great-great-grandfather, who commissioned Henry Howard to bring his dream of a proud homestead to reality. After its construction, the mansion remained in the Fortier family up until the late 1960s.

  It’s eerie to stand on the outside of a life you could have had, looking in like a ghost in a Dickens story. Every detail about this house has been drilled into my head thanks to my mom. She used to drag me here when I was a kid—she’s a sucker for strolling down memory lane. To her, it’s cathartic to play pretend for a few minutes, wondering what her life would have been like if my grandfather hadn’t been forced to sell the property when his debt collectors came knocking.

  “Could you imagine living here?” she’d ask me.

  Back then, I honestly couldn’t. I was a country boy who grew up in a double-wide trailer home. The fanciest place I’d ever been to was the state capitol in Baton Rouge on a grade-school field trip. I couldn’t picture myself playing tag on the expansive emerald lawns when most days my friends and I spent time kicking up dust on old dirt roads.

  When old money falls, it falls hard.

  She still wants this life—but then, I can’t really blame her. The Garden District holds an unmistakable allure. It’s drawn celebrities like Sandra Bullock, Bradley Cooper, Beyoncé, and Jay-Z. They all come to town to film, get infected by the southern charm dripping from the mossy live oaks, and try to make themselves into New Orleanians, but even with money, breaking into Big Easy society isn’t half as easy as they’d like it to be. Just ask my mom. She named me Beauregard, as if to try to trick people into treating me with the awe and respect my ancestor commanded, but first names just don’t matter in a place where bloodlines run deep. Unless you’re a Robichaux, LeBlanc, or Delacroix, naming your kid Beauregard is like putting lipstick on a pig.

  “Excuse me, sir, do you live here?”

  I turn to my right and see a middle-aged Asian woman clutching a crinkled map. Behind her, there’s a cluster of curious tourists, eyes brimming with hope. One of them turns to another and whispers loudly, “I think he was in a movie. Yes! It’s him, I swear!”

  I’ve never acted a day in my life.

  “No, sorry ma’am.” I shake my head. “I’m just passing through.”

  She smiles and points to my clothes. “Well you look like you could.”

  I get it. Not many tourists walk around in a pressed suit—especially not in August in Louisiana—but I had to come straight from my mock trial at Tulane and I didn’t bring a change of clothes. It’s fine. I’m not planning on walking around for long. In fact, my destination is right across the street.

  It’s a house owned by Mitchell and Kathleen LeBlanc, one of the oldest families in New Orleans. I’ve heard the name a million times. It’s carved on a few buildings downtown. Their home is a yellow two-story colonial with white columns and dark navy shutters. Compared to some of the other homes in the area, it’s not quite as grandiose, but the land alone is worth millions.

  A large oak tree arches over the left side of the home, concealing the small apartment on the back of the property and the bright red FOR RENT sign hanging in the window—at least, I hope it’s still there. As of this morning, the apartment wasn’t occupied, but rental properties move fast in this area thanks to all the Tulane students looking to live off campus.

  I tip an imaginary hat to the dejected tourists and cross the street, glad to find the front gate unlocked. Warm wind rustles the leaves, bringing with it the sweet scent of blooming gardenia and jasmine. My shiny dress shoes snap against the brick-lined walkway before I take the stairs two at a time. I knock and wait. There’s nothing but silence. I tip back on my heels and try again. This time I hear a faint voice calling through the door.

  “Oh shoot—coming! I’m coming!”

  The front door sweeps open and I’m taken aback by the woman waving me in.

  “You must be Beau!” she says with a wide smile.

  I’ve never seen a photo of Mrs. LeBlanc, and I had a fairly well-defined stereotype formed in my mind: stuffy and pretentious, with heavy pearls tugging her earlobes toward the ground. The imagined caricature dissolves in the face of the real version, which has bright laugh lines and an arti
st’s smock hastily tied around her waist. Two pencils skewer a messy bun sitting high atop her head. She has a smudge of paint across her cheek and her hands are so stained that when I offer to shake her hand, she smiles and extends her bent elbow instead. I can’t help but laugh as I confidently grasp the outside of her arm and shake it like a chicken wing.

  “I’m sorry. Am I early?”

  I feel compelled to ask although I know that’s not the case. I’m meticulous—I don’t have the luxury not to be.

  “No! No.” She shakes her head and leads the way to the kitchen, holding her bent arms in front of her like a doctor scrubbing in for surgery. “You’re right on time, actually. I really thought I would wrap up work in my studio sooner, but the light was just perfect and I couldn’t pull myself away.” She laughs and then puffs out a little breath, trying to move the loose strand of blonde hair off her face. After two more tries, she finally succeeds, and then she turns her expressive hazel eyes back to me. “Now, can I offer you something cold to drink?”