Yours to Keep: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Bell, Serena

  The ring shouldn’t matter. The ring shouldn’t change anything. And, technically, she supposed it hadn’t. Ethan had changed everything. By showing up, by declaring himself, by insisting on his feelings, by claiming her. Now his arms around her felt—they felt real. They felt permanent. They felt hers.

  “You feel good,” he whispered.

  “You, too.”

  In the weeks since his proposal, they’d spent most of their nights at his house, limbs entangled. He’d driven her to and from work when he could. They’d met with Harry Abrams and gotten started on the paperwork that would eventually make her a permanent resident. They’d begun to plan the fancy wedding that would cement their marriage and cleave her to the United States.

  And they’d talked and talked. Unfurled their lives—her childhood, the country and aunt she barely remembered, the mother whose loss was still too vivid, all the little envies and deprivations. His childhood, safe and certain, sometimes dull. What it had been like to meet Trish and to lose her. How Theo had both muted the pain and been—through no fault of his own—unable to fill the chasm her death had left.

  What it was like to be afraid and then, so suddenly, not to be afraid.

  Their lives had been very different, but now those two histories had merged to make a single path into the future. They would walk it together.

  She wrapped her arms more tightly around him and squeezed.

  “Do you think anyone would notice if we—?”

  She lifted her face, and he kissed her. It was a chaste kiss, but the hard plane of his abs against her belly, the muscles tightening there, made her grab his arms and pull him back for more. When he lifted his head again, he shook it and laughed. “Man,” he said, “that was supposed to be PG.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re totally not.”

  “No, I’m totally not.”

  Even though she’d have to go inside with her pulse beating in her throat and a damp heat between her legs. She wasn’t sorry, not about the kiss, not about any of it. She was full of joy.

  From inside, there was a burst of laughter. Ethan and Theo had invited all the Travareses, and Ethan’s parents, and James, and Leah for dinner. It was Marco who’d laughed—Marco, who bore only a scar and a patch where his head had been shaved as a reminder of his near-death experience. He’d play football again next year, in a brand-new top-of-the-line helmet that Ethan had bought for him. Ethan had spent many hours last week going over concussion protocols with the high-school football coaches. He’d do a league-wide training before next fall’s season—no more crunching of helmets.

  By all measures the Hansen-Travares Christmas dinner had been an overwhelming success. The dining-room table had groaned earlier under the combined culinary expectations of two cultures: Cara’s pork, chivo, and tostones, Ethan’s mother’s turkey, gravy, stuffing, and mashed potatoes, and the world’s most absurd cheese plate courtesy of Ethan’s father, who said that Christmas wasn’t Christmas unless you ate Brie until you made yourself sick.

  Marco and Angel had taught Theo to swear in Spanish. Leah had shown Leta how to do a French manicure, spilling only a moderate amount of white nail polish on Ethan’s kitchen counter. Cara and Ethan’s mother had swapped recipes, copying them out in their own version of Spanglish on the scraps of notepaper that Sheila hoarded in her purse.

  True, James had found a way to avoid Ricky. He’d stepped away from the family introductions before he had to shake hands with the man who’d threatened his brother. Ana had doubted that the two men would ever look each other in the eye. And probably they wouldn’t have, if not for Ethan’s dad. At the dinner table, Ted Hansen had sized up the situation in his quiet way as he put away bite after bite of tostones, then said, apropos of nothing, “You know, some people think Mike Mussina is the best changeup pitcher of all time.”

  A fist came down on the dining-room table and rattled the dishes. Ana jumped.

  They all turned to James, who looked as if he were going to boil. “Hell, no, he’s not, and you know it, Dad.”

  “James and I have a little difference of opinion on this one,” Ted told them. “Always have.”

  “That’s because you’re wrong.”

  That was Ricky.

  Ana drew a quick, worried breath. She had begged Ricky to come today, and she’d been fearful all along that he would do something—well, Rickyish. He’d honored the situation by putting on his best pair of baggy pants and leaving his do-rag home. He’d been polite, if quiet, throughout dinner, wearing a wary expression most of the time, but now her brother was all bristling bulk, hard jaw, challenge, as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity.

  Ana sighed. It was Christmas Day, and Ted was her new father-in-law-to-be, and why did Ricky have to be so pugilistic?

  But Ted only looked vaguely amused. “I am, am I?”

  “Pedro Martínez is the best changeup pitcher of all time.”

  “He is, is he?”

  For that matter, what did Ethan’s dad think he was doing? He knew as well as any of them that this was a fraught situation.

  Ana watched Ricky’s chest rise and fall, once, twice, watched him gather himself for an argument. Her own heart pounded like mad, and she held on to the seat of her chair with one hand as if it would anchor her if everything went wrong, all wrong.

  But, instead, James spoke. His voice was more even now, and his fists were nowhere in evidence. “Damn straight. Pedro’s the best.”

  Across the table, his gaze came up and met Ricky’s. The two men gave each other brief, hard nods of agreement then looked away, but Ana had seen it, and the bright happiness flared. She shot Ted a look of her own, a thank-you, and he, too, gave a small tip of his head and a hint of a smile.

  Under the table, Ethan took her hand, his fingers curling tightly around hers, and she let herself feel the contentment as James and Ricky and Ted went on about some machine called PITCHf/x and how if it had existed in Pedro Martínez’s day there wouldn’t have been any debate about who was the best.

  Later, on the porch, Ethan tugged Ana’s long hair, which made a shiver run through her, and asked, “How’s Ricky’s business doing?”

  “He has six customers already. Including, of course, Rena Abrams. She laid off her current cleaning service to hire him.”

  “I assume you were instrumental in that.”

  “I might have pulled some strings.” Rena had also given Ana a list of five or six moms she knew who were interested in a Spanish-immersion playgroup for their toddlers, and three more names of parents who wanted tutoring for older kids. Ana still didn’t quite know what to make of Rena’s generosity, but she had gratefully taken the list and followed up on the work. Whatever you might say about Rena’s motives, that list of names meant that Ana could dismiss Ed Branch and his CORI machinations until her residency was assured and she had the power to really fight back.

  “And Ricky’s goon?”

  Ana poked him in the ribs. “If James can forgive Ricky, surely you can forgive Ernie. He’s a misguided teddy bear.”

  “I’ve totally forgiven him. But privately I’m going to refer to him as Ricky’s goon for the rest of his natural life.”

  “He’s working for Ricky. There’s not much money yet from the cleaning, but I think he might have some side businesses we don’t really need to know about, so he’s doing okay.”

  Inside, beyond where the Christmas tree stood, lit and festive, the TV flickered to life. James and Ricky had claimed opposite ends of the couch, with Theo and Leah between them, and James manned the remote until a college-football bowl game sprang to life on the screen.

  “Sports save the day,” Ethan said.

  She nuzzled closer against him. Her hands were starting to freeze, but she wasn’t ready yet to rejoin the fray. “I don’t even like sports.”

  He laughed. “You like football.”

  “I like it in a my-nephew-plays-I’ll-watch sort of way.”

  “You don’t have to
like sports. I don’t care if you like sports.” He put his lips to her hair and she felt his words move against her scalp. “I can watch football and you can daydream and let me grope you surreptitiously.”

  She butted her head gently against his chin. “I should at least be grateful to sports. They’ve been instrumental in our getting together at every turn.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “If it weren’t for your helmet campaign, Theo wouldn’t have been acting up that first day, and I wouldn’t have had a chance to impress you with my calm, cool, collected act.”

  “Oh, I would have seen that anyway, believe me.”

  “And if Marco hadn’t been injured Ricky wouldn’t have apologized and we might never have gotten back together.” To her surprise, tears rose in her eyes and throat, an unexpected pressure in her chest.

  Ethan hugged her, hard. “I would have come to my senses eventually. I would have told Ricky he could stuff it, and I would have swept you off your feet and carried you off on my white steed.”

  “Horseback riding,” she pointed out. “It always comes back to sports.”

  “I thought it was supposed to always come back to sex.”

  “That, too,” she said, bumping her hip against his erection.

  James and Ricky leaped off the couch at the same time, fists in the air, celebrating some football victory.

  “Sports for the win again,” Ana said.

  “Everyone’s getting along. Bodes well for the wedding.”

  “And if things go south we can always put small televisions all around the room and play classic Sox and Pats games on continuous loop. And Dominican baseball.”

  “And then, while everyone’s watching, we can sneak off early.”

  “Mmm,” she said, as he began imprinting a line of kisses along her jaw.

  “Ana.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re mine.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m yours.”

  “Yes.”

  He kissed her, his mouth bossy, his hand wrapped hard around her hair at the nape of her neck. All possession.

  Then he released her, and they both surveyed their motley crew through the French doors. Ricky reached over the teenagers and punched James in the shoulder, and the two men laughed, loud enough to be heard on the porch. Ethan gave her a rueful glance. “And I guess those clowns are ours.”

  “ ’Fraid so,” she said.

  Just then Theo looked over from the television and his eyes met Ana’s. A smile broke over his face, big and unabashed. Not so very long ago, it had been a difficult job to draw a wan smile from him.

  She didn’t kid herself that it would always be this easy to love Theo, of course. Once she was a regular fixture of his household, she was sure he’d give her as much grief as he’d ever given his father. But that was okay. She would welcome it. It would mean that he felt safe with her. It would mean that he no longer had to be on his best behavior. It would mean that he believed she would stay.

  Again, she felt that brilliant sensation in her chest. She would stay. She would belong. Ethan and Theo, this country, the life she’d carved out but never let herself be sure of—they were hers.

  To keep.

  Epilogue

  Theo was at a guitar concert with Leah. They were chaperoned by James, who was doubtless even less dependable in these situations than Rena Abrams, but at the moment that was the furthest thing from Ethan’s mind.

  Ethan had set the table with the new china, a wedding present to him and Ana from his parents. He’d lit two candles. He’d cooked steaks on the grill and corn on the cob and sliced local tomatoes with fresh mozzarella cheese and bright green basil. The last of the New England summer fare. September already.

  Spring had been a circus of wedding planning. The wedding had begun as an elaborate lie, because neither Ethan nor Ana had wanted anything other than to stare into each other’s eyes, with witnesses present, and make their vows. But somewhere along the line it had turned into something beautiful. Vows they’d written themselves, the simple sanctity of a Unitarian church, tears in everyone’s eyes. Except Ricky’s, but Ethan didn’t expect that seeing Ricky cry was the sort of event that came along twice in a lifetime.

  It had been a party to end all parties, music and food and dancing and laughing till all hours, and everywhere Ethan turned the gloriousness of Ana’s face beamed back at him.

  They’d aced their United States Citizenship and Immigration Services interview. Ana wore a thigh-length pink lace nightie to bed, Ethan reported, which was an easy one, because he’d bought it for her himself. The clothes were washed in Tide. Ethan flossed with Glide. Ana’s favorite movie was Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion.

  The shamelessness of the questions had shocked him only once, when he had to report that, while formerly they had used condoms for birth control, Ana was now on the Pill, which his health insurance had paid for.

  The USCIS officer had wished them a happy life together, and Ethan had left Theo with James and taken Ana to a hotel room so that he could have some quality time with the pink nightie. Also without the pink nightie. At whatever volume the situation necessitated.

  Ana was now sprawled out on the living-room floor, her biology textbook in front of her. Periodically, she asked, “Are you sure I can’t help?,” and he reiterated his “No.”

  “Dinner is ready,” he finally called.

  She came in and sat across from him. “Oh, yum.” She helped herself to a steak and some corn, slathering a warm piece of bread with butter. He spooned some of the salad onto her plate. “Are you going to tell me what we’re celebrating?” she asked.

  He pulled out the envelope he’d been sitting on and handed it to her.

  Her eyes got huge.

  It was an ordinary white envelope with two windows, one for her name and address and one for the return address: USCIS.

  He’d slit the envelope. “I opened it.”

  “Good.”

  She’d told him she wanted him to. That the suspense would make her sick to her stomach.

  Even so, her hand shook as she turned it over. The card—it was so little, almost inconsequential—fell out into her lap.

  She picked it up and held it. There she was, her own serious face looking back at her. United States of America. PERMANENT RESIDENT—all caps. A ghost of the Statue of Liberty in the background.

  He came around the table and stood behind her chair. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her while she cried, his lips making trails that followed the tears down her cheeks, his hands moving along her arms and shoulders, warming her.

  After a while, he said, “Now I know you won’t leave.”

  “Never.” She rose from her chair and twined herself into his arms, kissing his jaw and his cheeks and his ears and his mouth. His breath came fast.

  He pulled away. “I have another surprise.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of printer paper. It was an itinerary from an online travel site. “We can take our honeymoon now. Visit your aunt.”

  It was tickets for the two of them, spring-break dates. Landing at La Isabela, in Santa Domingo, the Dominican Republic.

  “I wanted to go sooner, but I heard hurricane season isn’t the best time of year there.”

  She shook her head, laughing. “It’s really not.”

  “If you want to go someplace you’ve never been before—”

  “No,” she said. She smiled at him, eyes still sparkling with tears. “It’s perfect.”

  For Lizzie

  Acknowledgments

  I am, above all, deeply grateful to the undocumented immigrants, ESL/ELL teachers, and immigrant advocates who shared their stories and helped me understand what it’s like to live in the shadows.

  Thank you to Loveswept editor Sue Grimshaw for loving the story and midwifing the last chapter, and to Random House for its meticulous production process.

  I couldn’t have written this book without the lovin
g support of Jessica Auerbach, Brad Parks, Ellen Price, and Tracey Smith, all of whom believed in the story before it was written and helped shape it into the book it has become. Neither could I have done it without the love and devotion and patience of my husband and children.

  Ruthie Knox gently and diplomatically urged the second, and crucial, gutting of the first half of the book, then undertook with me a crash course in how to begin a novel. Eliza Auerbach was my expert on pediatrics and the Dominican Republic; Matthew Kolken, my legal guru (with additional help from Alisha Bloom); Aimee Triana Alvarez, my Spanish tutor and editor; Meg Maguire, the official critiquer of first kisses. Mary Ann Rivers provided advice and reassurance at a key moment when my morale was flagging and panic was setting in.

  And, of course, huge thanks to my terrific and eternally optimistic agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, of Prospect Agency, who fell in love with the story and brought it back into the light.

  Photo credit: Susan Young Photography

  Serena Bell writes stories about how sex messes with your head, why smart people do stupid things sometimes, and how love can make it all better. She wrote her first steamy romance before she was old enough to understand what all the words meant and has been perfecting the art of hiding pages and screens from curious eyes ever since—a skill that’s particularly useful now that she’s a mother of two.

  For a while, Serena took a break from penning love stories to explore the world as a journalist, where she spent time shadowing and writing about a cast of fascinating real-life characters.

  When she’s not writing or getting her butt kicked at Scrabble by her kids, she’s practicing modern-dance improv in the kitchen, swimming laps, taking a long walk, or reading on one of her many electronic devices.

  Serena blogs about reading and writing romance at www.serenabell.com and www.wonkomance.com. She also tweets like a madwoman, as @serenabellbooks, and posts to Facebook at www.facebook.com/serenabellbooks.