Her heart skipping a beat, MaryJo knew if he kept this up, she was going to cry. For her blunt, tough-as-nails father to . . . make a speech about how much he cared- "Dad-"
"Damn it, MaryJo-" Scowling, he glared her into submission and she smothered a laugh. Anyone eavesdropping on their conversation would have difficulty understanding their dynamic. "There's more. And I need to get it all out before the hoopla starts." The hoopla being her impending wedding—in under twenty minutes.
"Okay, Dad. I'm sorry." How she kept a straight face, she would never know. "Please continue."
"When your mom got sicker, her sister Rosemarie came from California. You remember?" When she nodded, he took a deep breath. "She was pretty insistent that once your mom-" Clearing his throat, Sean glanced away, his jaw clenching with emotion. "She said I should think hard about letting you move out there with her. She reminded me—in pretty strong terms—how inept I'd be taking care of a little girl."
Her breath catching, MaryJo bit her lip to keep it from trembling. How she would manage to get through this conversation without breaking down was frightening to contemplate. Seeing her father get misty over her mother sent a frisson of hot emotion coursing through her chest. Nearly twenty years later and he still clearly felt her absence. It was appropriate, she thought. To see such an expression of true love—on her own wedding day.
Taking a deep breath, her father continued, his voice regaining its edge. "Well—obviously, you know I refused your aunt. I couldn't just hand you off to Rosemarie."
Nodding, MaryJo knew better than to interrupt him when he was on a roll.
"She probably would've done a better job," he admitted. "Half the time I didn't know what the hell I was doing." He winced. "I'd start sweating whenever you mentioned girly shit—like makeup or dancing lessons . . . Those were the times I questioned my decision—because Rosie would've known what she was doing."
"No, Dad."
As though he didn't hear her, her father continued his monologue. "But—I just couldn't. After your mother passed—you . . . were all I had." His gruff voice hesitated. "And maybe it was selfish to want to keep you with me. But, I knew even then . . . if I didn't have you—I might not make it. I needed you—to take care of. I needed a reason to get outta bed each day. A reason to keep going."
Oh, God. She was going to lose it. Her steely, drill sergeant father . . . needed her? Guilt spilled over her as she remembered all the times she'd wished for a mother—when all the while, he'd been trying so hard to be both. "Dad-"
"So—I told Rosemarie she couldn't have you."
That did it. Tears sprang to her eyes as she reached out to hug him. "Dad, I love you so much." Sniffing back tears, she released a shaky breath. "I'm so glad you kept me with you. I was always scared you'd think I was too much of a burden."
His eyes glinting suspiciously, Sean cleared his throat. "Hell, MaryJo—why would you think something so ridiculous?" Reaching for his bowtie, he stifled a grimace, appearing as though he'd love to rip it free. "The only way I knew to prove your aunt wrong was to tackle the job of raising you—like a mission. But, looking back . . . all the discipline—the schedules and lists and stuff—probably wasn't the best way to show my daughter how much I loved her—but it was the only way I could manage it," he admitted. "I was afraid I might forget something important and I'd eff the whole thing up."
A sob breaking free, she was laughing and crying at the same time. After all these years . . . MaryJo realized she didn't need an explanation of what she'd always known was true. She didn't know whether to kiss Travis or slug him for turning her father into a sensitive pile of mush—today, of all days. "Dad—you were the best father I could ever hope for." As tears streamed down her face, a bubble of laughter broke free. "You've seriously ruined my makeup. Lyss is going to kill us."
As though on cue, Madeline poked her head around the corner. "Holy Mother of God—Sean Mullaney," she shrieked. "What the hell are you doing to her?" Yelling over her shoulder to raise the alarm with the bridal party, the gentle soul MaryJo had always admired for her dignity and class, plowed like a linebacker toward her father. "Get the hell out of here—now."
Thinking better of his initial protest, Sean raised his arms in surrender. "Maddie—don't get yourself all worked up." Winking at MaryJo, he gave her one last smile before he was shoved bodily from the anteroom.
"Blow your nose, honey." Handing her a tissue, Madeline issued the directive while offering him one last glare. "The girl's getting married in twelve minutes and you've got her weeping," she muttered. "Alyssa, get in here. We need to patch up her makeup. Juliet—where are those eye drops? I forbid any red eyes in the pictures."
A few deep breaths later, MaryJo smiled, giving herself over to the hive of activity taking place around her. Dreamily, she closed her eyes to their ministrations. Though the ceremony was still before her, she acknowledged it was already one of the best days of her life. Surrounded by everyone she loved—marrying the man who'd become her best friend and closest confidante. Their life would be absolutely perfect—the messy, far-from-perfect sort of perfect. And she couldn't wait for it to start.
When someone poked her, her eyes fluttered open. "Are you nervous?"
Smiling, MaryJo exhaled a deep breath. "I'm—ready. Let's get this show rolling."
WITH A GROAN OF PLEASURE, Travis collapsed in the grass, dizzy with satisfaction, his heart still racing. Gazing down at his pleasantly ravished, stunningly beautiful wife, he grinned. "Seriously, MaryJo—your jumpshot is going to kill me one of these days."
"Without all those personal fouls, I don't think I'd have been nearly as inspired." Her lazy voice held amusement. "So—keep those shady moves coming."
Shading her from the late afternoon sun shining down on them, Travis' thoughts wandered to the possible addition of an umbrella. When they'd moved in six months earlier, he'd paid a small fortune to fence in the new basketball court from potential curiosity seekers, though had there been any, they’d have their work cut out for them. The fence was nearly eight feet high. MaryJo had been adamant. If she was consistently going to get naked in the back yard, there'd better be a fence. She'd hinted the privacy would allow her to be less inhibited. And damned if she hadn't been right. If his wife grew any less inhibited, he might be forced to start a daily vitamin regimen.
Had she not disappeared from his life, Patrice might have been proud of him. Travis was finally spending his money. He finally had a life—and he was sure as hell living it. With someone managing the day-to-day business stuff at Tiberius, he'd been free to pursue his passions. Designing new systems. Mentoring a young, crazily talented staff. Volunteering with the rescue squad. Rebuilding his relationship with Curtis. And spending time with MaryJo. Building their life together. Their new home sat on three, secluded acres. The basketball court was a blend of old and new. Like any traditional man, Travis had insisted on digging up and transporting the basketball hoop from MaryJo's house. There had been too many memories to part with it. MaryJo had insisted on the Sugar Maple from his back yard. Moving the damn tree had cost almost as much as the entire basketball court.
"Travis?"
"Hmm?" Swooping in to kiss her, he recognized the familiar burst of joy in his chest. He'd waited his entire life for this woman. He would never let a day go by that he didn't acknowledge it. Propping up on one elbow, she stared at him, her velvety eyes still slumberous with passion—and something else. A secret?
"I think we may want to consider a few adjustments to the basketball court."
"Babe, what more could we need? We just finished it." Her smile held such satisfaction, he could only wonder what would come next.
"I was thinking maybe we should consider lowering the net-"
"You already win enough as it is," he pointed out.
"True." Her gaze heated with amusement. "I wasn't thinking about lowering it now," she explained. "Maybe in seven . . . or eight months."
"Why would we-" Travis stilled—his
entire being honing in on her words. Lower the net. "Wait-" He bolted up. "Are you—are y-you saying-"
Her smile widened. "I'm saying the first recruit to our team might find the nets a little challenging."
If it were possible for a heart to explode—then his was doing exactly that. "Oh my God—MaryJo." As quickly as happiness suffused him, his brain clouded with worry.
"Aren't you happy?" His wife's eyes flashed concern. "I thought—I thought you'd be-"
"I'm—beyond happy, Mariela. I can't believe-" His hand shaking, he placed it protectively over her stomach. "I can't believe there's a baby in there." With a sudden burst of annoyance, he frowned at her. "Why the hell didn't you tell me this before we played basketball?"
Her temper flared. "Because pregnant or not, I'm not giving up . . . shooting hoops with you. That's not ending until the doctor says we have to." She smothered a laugh. "Or I get so huge I'm waddling down the court."
He released a shaky breath. "What if I was too rough-" Noticing the smile she held back—in that way she had—as though she was trying not to laugh at him, Travis felt a measure of relief.
"Lockwood—you are a lot of things, but rough isn't one of them." Leaning in, she kissed the worry from his expression. "You are . . . a creampuff. I know you let me win—at least half the time."
"Based on our bets, that just means I win." His grin faded as he sought her gaze and—her reassurance. "Are we ready for this? How can I be sure I'll be a good father when I had such terrible examples?"
"Because you're worrying about it," she insisted. "How do we know I'll be a good mother—when I haven't had one in twenty years?"
"You'll be perfect-" Bristling, Travis was working up a good protest to her hypothetical question when she rested her hand on his arm. As though she could read his thoughts.
"Together, we're going to be amazing parents," she said, quietly confident. "Not perfect—but we'll be damn good at trying our best."
Her determined expression provided a fleeting glimpse of her father's perpetual scowl. He loved her mind, her logic. Her fierce loyalty. Travis was going to love tangling with her for the next fifty years. "We'll be putting in overtime when your father's around." He glanced down at her, his mouth curving. "With Sean for a grandfather, our baby's first word won't be mama, it'll be motherfu-"
"Travis-" Pressing her fingers to his lips, she laughed. "Some things can't be helped."
Raising his gaze to the perfect, blue sky overhead, he gently tugged her closer. "I never forget, you know." Glancing sideways, he discovered her beautiful eyes on him. "How lucky we are. How lucky I am." Reaching for her hand, he entwined her fingers with his. "God, MaryJo—I can't wait for the rest of it."
Excerpt: Out of the Ashes
Please enjoy the following excerpt from OUT OF THE ASHES, Book 4 in the Can't Help Falling series.
Out of Options . . .
Shannon McCarty has made many of mistakes in her life. But none worse than the torture she inflicted on the man who destroyed her family. At thirty, the thirst for revenge she felt at seventeen has faded. Now, she wonders whether she her actions made a broken man's life even worse.
If there was a single moment Curtis Forsythe could have back, it would be the night of the crash. The moment before impact, before his life was forever changed. After thirteen years of isolation . . . of living with his guilt, of never allowing himself joy. Pleasure. Hope. He finally knows what he wants. Shannon McCarty has given him back his life. More than anything, he'd like to share it with her.
Falling in love with her sworn enemy was never in the plan. Now, Shannon lives in fear of discovery. What will Curtis think when he learns her true identity? When he discovers she was responsible for making the most unbearable time of his life . . . even worse. Forgiving himself has taken more than a decade. Forgiving her might take a lifetime.
Excerpt: Out of the Ashes
Curtis Forsythe hobbled down the porch, each step more excruciating than the last. Shifting to his overworked left leg, he clutched the rail. When the screen door slammed behind him, he froze.
"Don't leave."
Afraid to move, Curt pivoted on the step. For the last three hours, he'd smiled and joked his way through the pain, hiding it from the people who knew him best. It would be just like his brother to catch him now—only steps away from the safety of his truck.
"Hannah . . . what are you doing?" In the porch light, her blond waves were captured in a frame of deceptively angelic light.
"Stay with me."
Her earnest, captivating, oh-so-trusting, brown eyes returned his stare. With a sigh, Curt lurched back up the step, his grip white-knuckled on the rail. Since the moment they'd met, he'd been unable to resist her. "Does anyone know you're out here?"
A guilty smile twitched on her lips. "Maybe."
Despite the sharp knot clutching his shredded muscle, he laughed. "Get over here." Joy and a frisson of fear tightened his chest when the little girl launched into his arms.
"Uncle Curt, when you leave . . . they make me go to bed. And . . . I'm not even tired." Her complaint, voiced through a fierce yawn, fluttered against his throat, where she planted a tired, sticky, chocolate ice cream kiss.
"Honey, it's getting dark. Where's daddy?" Shifting the small bundle of stubbornness to one arm, Curt retraced his steps to the front door, all while wondering how in hell his brother would survive her childhood.
"Little Curt pooped. Daddy’s changin' his diaper. He says Curt’s toxic." Her head lifted briefly from his shoulder. "What's toxic mean?"
Stepping into the dim foyer, Curt headed back to the kitchen, the pain settling into a dull strum, something he'd grown to prefer to the sharp stabs of agony. "It means yucky. Where's Mommy?"
"She's feedin' Sean." Another ear-splitting yawn. Though he heard voices in the back of the house, Curt didn't want to expend a single step more than was absolutely necessary. Travis was nowhere to be found. Setting Hannah on the counter, he decided to lecture his niece while waiting for his brother to appear.
"Han, you can't just leave the house whenever you feel like it. It's dark outside. What if you got lost?"
Her eyes drooping, she smiled. "In the driveway? Uncle Curt, I'm five."
Lips twitching, he glanced away, fighting the urge to laugh. "You're almost five," he corrected. Damn, she was good. Worse—she knew it. Tomorrow, he would install alarms on all the exterior doors to allow his brother at least a fighting chance. "Your dad is going to have heart failure when he realizes you're missing."
"Is that when your heart gets broke? Mommy says you’re a heartbreaker."
"It's when your heart gets terrified," he corrected. If his sister-in-law knew what Hannah was repeating, she’d be mortified. He, on the other hand, appreciated the stealthy information he gleaned. All the better to torture her with later. Steps in the hallway grew louder as they approached the kitchen. His brother emerged, a diaper in one hand and Curt's two year old namesake in the other.
Travis' face registered surprised. "I thought you left?" Lobbing the diaper into the trash as though it were a basketball, he slung the toddler on his shoulder. "Lockwood's still got it."
"It's sad what your life has devolved to." Curt smiled. "Han decided to follow me. I found her on the porch." He paused a beat. "In the dark."
His brother's eyes widened. "Shit."
Hannah fixed him with a glare. "That's a bad word. I'm tellin' Mommy."
Flustered, Travis raked a hand through his hair. "I thought MaryJo-"
"Mommy's feedin' baby Sean."
Curt experienced a twinge of sympathy for the quick shudder of fear that rippled through his brother. Little Curt slobbering on his shoulder; a close call with Hannah. A new baby wailing all night. His version of living hell. Trav and MaryJo were on overload. "I'll be back tomorrow to install a few door alarms."
Travis shot him a grateful look. "Jesus, I'm off my game with this third one."
"That's two swear words." Her sleepy po
ut turned surly.
"You are in trouble, young lady," Travis warned. "What do you think Mommy will say about you being outside without permission? Again."
"Maybe . . . she doesn't hafta hear about me goin' outside?" Hope sparked in velvety, brown eyes. "And . . . I don't hafta tell her about your bad words."
Curt watched his brother battle to control his expression. Hell, he wanted to crack up, too. But Hannah already wielded a dangerous degree of power. Time spent around his niece and nephews had proven addictive. Despite catching him off guard, he'd increasingly found himself imagining a kid of his own. "Maybe you should get ready for bed," he suggested. "Before your dad gets angry."
“Too late,” Travis said through clenched teeth.
Wide eyes fixed on him, Hannah nodded as he lifted her from the counter and set her on the floor. "I'll go brush my teeth.” She paused. “Daddy?"
"What?"
"You're not angry, Daddy," she prompted. "You're just . . . worried."
A stand-off in the making, Travis glared at his daughter. From Curt's vantage point, his brother’s clenched jaw had to be painful.
"Go. To. Bed. Now."
Curt turned to hide his grin. Then again, maybe he'd be just as content with favorite uncle status for another decade. All the perks with none of the hassle.
"Bye, Uncle Curt."
Travis waited for her to climb the back stairs before he released an exasperated sigh. "Jeez, Curt. Thanks for bringing her back. I'll have nightmares for a week about her wandering in the dark."
He gave his brother a friendly pat. "At least she didn't get far. This time." Shifting uncomfortably, he pushed off the counter. "I need to hit the road. I've got a full day tomorrow."
"Your knee is killing you," Travis accused as the baby released a gusty sigh. Sucking noisily on his fingers, Little Curt flopped against his shoulder. "Have you scheduled the damn surgery?"
He dismissed his concern with a wave. "I'm meeting with three or four candidates tomorrow to help in the office. Once I get someone on board, surgery is next on the list." This time, Curt actually meant it. The pain was becoming more than he could handle. Without the luxury of painkillers, the handful of ibuprofen he swallowed each night wasn't allowing much in the way of sleep.
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