There was lots of chuckling all around him, but all Henry cared about was that his mommy and Dylan were laughing. And they were. Dylan was even holding Mommy’s hand.
“You’re right, kid,” Dylan said. His eyes were real shiny. As though he was happy. “Ninety-two percent is pretty darned good. Thank you for—”
“But I don’t wanna wait forever and ever for you to be my real daddy.” Henry’s big voice sounded weird to him now, so he changed to his medium one. “’Cause I love you, Dylan, and I think you love me and my mommy. And I think she loves you. But no one’s asked anyone to be married yet and that’s why I’m gonna ask, so we can...get this ball rolling!”
More laughter, but not from Mommy and Dylan. They looked surprised but not mad. Other people were talking, though. Someone from behind Henry said, “Look how cute he is!”
And someone else said, “This might be the most romantic proposal ever.”
Henry smiled as hard as he could and stood up straighter. “Mommy, I don’t have a diamond ring or any ring at all, but I am asking you to marry Dylan anyway.” He breathed in and out real fast. “And, Dylan, will you marry my mommy and be my daddy? If you say yes, you’ll have to buy Mommy a really pretty ring with a really big diamond, because Mommy should have the best.”
They had to say yes. They just had to, because if they said no, he thought his heart would hurt even badder than that day at the park. It might even break, and he didn’t think any doctor anywhere could fix a broken heart.
Dylan looked at Mommy, and Mommy looked at Dylan, but neither one of them said yes or no. They just looked at each other and that made Henry more nervous, and his tummy started to feel worse. But then Dylan slid off the chair and knelt in front of Mommy. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a little black box. When he opened it, there was a ring there!
And it had a very big diamond.
“Honey, your son sort of stole the show here, and I wasn’t actually going to propose today,” Dylan said. “But I bought this ring last week and have been carrying it around with me ever since. In case the proper moment presented itself, and I’d say it just has.”
“Oh, Dylan, really? This seems so fast, and—” she blinked, like three million hundred times “—and this isn’t rational, you know. In any way, shape or form.”
“It isn’t reasonable, either. But, Chelsea, from the second I found you and Henry close to freezing in that car of yours, everything changed in my world. You became my world.” Dylan took the ring out of the box and held it out to Mommy. “I love you, and Lord, I hope you love me, too, and I hope you can see the logic in our son’s very eloquent words. Because we are a family. And I don’t much feel like waiting forever, either.”
“So we’re just going to throw away the rational and the reasonable here, huh?” She sounded funny, as if she was talking underwater, and her eyes were all soft. “In one fell swoop?”
“Mommy,” Henry said in his really big-big-big voice. “All you have to do is say yes! Please say yes!”
Dylan winked. “You heard him, honey. How can you say no now?”
She laughed then. “I don’t want to wait forever, either. Because I absolutely am in love with you and because you are Henry’s father. So...yes, I accept your proposal, Dylan.” She tipped her head up to look at Henry. “And yes, my darling son, I accept yours, as well.”
There was a bunch of cheering and lots and lots of clapping, and Mommy and Dylan were kissing, and Henry didn’t think his heart had ever been so happy in his whole entire life.
He had a daddy. The best daddy ever.
* * *
The sun had just started to set, and in all ways, the day had been a joy.
Surprising, for the family and friends attending the nuptials, and for Chelsea, as well. She was engaged to Dylan. She was to be his wife, and he her husband. Perhaps not completely rational, given the timing, but beautifully and exquisitely...perfect.
And to think her son’s bravery, his tenacious and never-give-up attitude, had—as he’d said—gotten the ball rolling. Oh, from the looks of her gorgeous ring, Dylan would’ve proposed sooner rather than later, but it wouldn’t have been today.
And she was so very, very happy for the blessings, the miracles of today.
“You’re looking rather contemplative there, honey,” Dylan said, offering her his hand. “I hope you’re not having second thoughts.”
“Just the opposite,” she said, putting her hand in his. “I’m thinking that there isn’t a woman alive who is as fortunate as I am.”
And oh, was she ever lucky. Dylan understood her. He’d looked deep into her soul, directly at her scars, and not only hadn’t he retreated, but he’d stepped even closer. It was, Chelsea decided, yet another miracle in a day brimming with them.
“Come with me,” Dylan said, tugging her along the side of the house. He wanted to dance with his soon-to-be wife, whisper sweet nothings into her ear and tell her repeatedly how very much he loved her. “We’re going to dance.”
The outdoor deck had been strung with sparkly lights, and soft music played in the background. Mr. and Mrs. Daugherty—jeez, his baby sister was married!—were already dancing, with Haley’s head cushioned on Gavin’s shoulder. They were spectacular.
But so was Chelsea.
When they reached the deck, he swung her into his arms, pulled her in close, and they began to dance. Her scent—that sexy mix of orange, honey and jasmine—wove around him, and he thought, again, of how intelligent his heart was, for recognizing this woman so quickly. For being so insistent that he had no choice but to pay attention and claim her as his.
Because she was, indeed, his. And he was hers.
Dylan brought his hand to her face, tucked her hair behind her ear and whispered, “I love you, Chelsea. And I want to get married soon. As soon as you’re willing to become Chelsea Foster, and then, if you’re okay with the idea, I want to adopt Henry.”
More of a necessity, actually.
She stepped back, and there were tears—of joy, of pleasure, of love—shimmering in the depths of her gorgeous blue eyes. “How soon?” she asked. “Because I’m ready to be your wife now. And of course you’ll adopt Henry, because he’s your son, and we need to make it official.”
At that moment, Henry—his smart, brave, ice-flying son—ran onto the deck and, spying them, came to a dead halt at their sides. He looked at Dylan. “I want to know,” he said, his voice unsure, “if I can start calling you Daddy now or if I have to wait until after we all get married?”
“Do you want to call me Daddy now?” Could his heart hold any more love, any more pride, than it already did? Dylan didn’t see how that would be possible. “Because if you do, then yes...I would be most honored. And—”
“Okay, Daddy.” Henry’s smile was so large, so bright, it outshone the sun. “I was thinking that we should talk about adding babies to this family. Not right away, and not two at a time because that’s too much crying, but maybe in a year, I’d like to have a brother or a sister.”
And there, Dylan thought, was his answer. Yes. His heart could indeed hold more.
Laughing, he let go of Chelsea and pulled Henry in between them so they could dance together. As the family they were always meant to be. His family. His...everything.
Damn, life was good.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from FALLING FOR THE MOM-TO-BE by Lynne Marshall.
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Chapter One
The last place Leif Andersen wanted to be was the Portland airport. An avowed loner, he didn’t look forward to sharing his home—his sanctuary—with a stranger. But that was what he got for owning the biggest and emptiest house in Heartlandia, and it was the imposition he’d accepted on behalf of the town mural.
The absolute last thing he expected to find was this woman sporting a female version of a bolero hat, black gaucho boots and a sunset-colored wrap waiting beside the baggage claim. That had to be her—who else could it be? In all honesty, what should he have expected from an artist from Sedona? She was probably dripping with turquoise underneath that poncho, too.
Attitude adjustment, buddy. This is for the greater good. You volunteered.
Approaching the conspicuous woman, he called out, “Marta Hoyas?”
She turned her head and nodded demurely. All business, or plain old standoffish—he couldn’t tell from here. Maybe she thought he was a chauffeur, but he worried about a long and awkward ride home in either case.
He approached and, seeing her more closely, was taken aback by her appearance. The term striking came to mind. He offered his hand. “I’m Leif Andersen.” She’d already been notified by Elke Norling that she’d be staying at his home for the duration of her mural painting.
Marta had olive skin with black walnut eyes, the color of his favorite wood for woodworking projects. They tilted upward above her cheekbones, accented by black feathery arched brows. A straight, pointy-tipped nose led to her mauve-colored lips. Nice. Rather than smile she made a tense, tight line, jutting out a strong chin. Her raven hair was pulled back under the hat brim in a low ponytail that hung halfway down her back. She’d qualify for beautiful if she didn’t look so damn stiff.
“Good to meet you.” Marta said the words, but combined with her weak handshake, Leif had a hard time believing them. However, years in construction had left him unaware of his own power. Maybe he’d crunched her fingers too hard.
“Just point out your bags and I’ll get them for you,” he said, focusing back on the task at hand and not the unsettling woman to his right. Again, she nodded. Hmm, not much for conversation, and truth was, that suited him just fine. He wasn’t looking for a friend or female company. Having lived alone for the past three years in his five-bedroom, three-thousand-plus square foot home that he’d built, well, having another person around was going to take major adjustment. So far, she seemed as much of a recluse as him, and she’d probably get lost in that great big house just like he did. They’d probably never even run into each other. Good.
She pointed at a large purple—why wasn’t he surprised?—suitcase rounding the corner on the carousel and he pulled it off. Then another. And another. Had she moved her entire wardrobe?
“Let’s take these to the curb, then you can wait while I bring the car around. Sound like a plan?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
He rolled two suitcases. She rolled the third, plus her carry-on bag to the curb. Then he strode off, vowing not to feel compelled to get this one to talk. She wasn’t here to talk. She’d come to Heartlandia to paint a magnificent mural on the city college walls, one that would depict the city’s history and live up to the beauty of her great-great-grandfather’s beloved town monument.
Making the trek to his car, he decided Marta wasn’t exactly standoffish. He’d only just met her and shouldn’t make a snap judgment. She was definitely distant and quiet, but something in the way she carried herself portrayed pride. Maybe taking a mural-painting job for a small town was a step down for her?
He’d studied her website when the college had made their final decision. She had a solid reputation and did art shows across the country but mostly in her home state of Arizona. Some of her work hung in modern-art museums and at US universities. The kind of painting she did, as best as he could describe it, and he definitely wasn’t an expert, was Postimpressionism. She liked large canvases and big subjects. The style seemed well suited for their historical mural needs.
In a world of pop and abstract art, he appreciated her use of vivid colors and real-life subject matter. Hers were paintings where he knew what he was looking at without having to turn his head this way and that, squint to figure it out and then make a guess. What he liked most was her use of intense colors to make her point. In that way she was bold and unrestrained, unlike the quiet woman beneath the bold and unrestrained clothing he’d just met. Bottom line, this style would stand out on a wall at their local college, and that was all that was important.
As he drove toward the curb to pick her up, it occurred to him that beneath her cool exterior, deep under the surface, maybe all was not right in Marta Hoyas’s world. This was one of the traits he’d developed since he’d lost everything he loved—an uncanny ability to read people, especially in the pain and suffering department. He could spot sad people anywhere. Saw the same look on his own face every day when he shaved. Yep, he’d go easy on the woman, and maybe they’d work out a compromise for living under the same roof for God only knew how long it would take her to paint that mural. This, too, he would survive.
He stopped at the passenger pickup curb. She got in while he put all three bags in the bed of his covered pickup truck. Being in construction since he was eighteen—he still couldn’t believe it had been twenty-four years since he’d joined his father’s business—there was just no point in driving a nice car.
“You ever been to Oregon?” he asked once he got back into the cab.
“Not in many years.”
“Ever see your great-great-grandfather’s monument?”
At last, a little sparkle of life in her dark eyes. “Yes. When I was fifteen. Beautiful.”
She removed her hat, and he was struck again by her beauty. An uneasy feeling, one he hadn’t experienced in years, demanded his attention, and it rattled him.
You’re a man, damn it. You’ve always loved women. Quit thinking like a priest.
Too bad he was hell-bent on living with a dead heart. Didn’t matter what this woman did to his pulse. Losing Ellen to cancer had left him devastated. The thought of ever again going through anything close to that—loving someone with all of his heart and soul and losing them—had shut him down. Never again.
So how the hell could he explain the humming feeling under his ribs and down to his fingertips when he looked into her dark and mysterious gaze? She crossed one booted leg over the other and stretched forward to adjust the seat belt, jutting out her chest in the process.
“Can I help you with that?” he asked, trying his damnedest not to notice her breasts.
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
He focused back on driving, vowing to only look straight ahead from that moment on.
Typical of Oregon weather in late September, it drizzled as he exited the Portland airport and headed toward the freeway. Being three o’clock, it would be after five before they got back to Heartlandia this Saturday afternoon. And because she had yet to utter more than ten words, and he didn’t exactly feel like playing twenty questions, Leif gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and hunkered down for what he’d expected since first laying eyes on her—an extralong drive home, punctuated by awkward and strained silence. Like right now.
He swallowed. Fine with him.
* * *
Marta stared out the window, struck by how green everything was. What should she expect from a place that got more than forty inches of rain a year? Compared to her red-rock desert home, anyplace would look green. She glanced at Leif’s profile. If he ground his molars any tighter, he’d break through his jaw. His weathered fair complexion, darkened by his outdoor work—she’d been told his was the construction company that had built Heartlandia City College—made him look in his midforties
...like Lawrence. She shook her head, trying to ward off any more thoughts about her benefactor, and wasn’t that all he’d wound up being? Her ex-benefactor...and ex-lover.
For five years she’d given up everything for him. Five years she’d traveled with him, met the people he thought she should meet for her career. Respected his boundaries and accepted his terms. Evidently Marta was only worthy of being his significant other. It had suited their relationship well for the first year. Hell, she’d even set up the rules. She’d rebelled against her parents’ traditional marriage. Pooh-poohed her father’s favorite saying: “A love like ours only comes once in a lifetime.” Heck, she’d been through half a dozen boyfriends by the time she was twenty-two, and not a single one had been interested in anything beyond the here and now. That kind of love was passé. She hid behind her rebellious facade, the edgy artist, and tried to believe it didn’t matter that no man had come close to loving her the way her father loved her mother. But they were so old-fashioned. Old school. She was a modern woman.
It had worked well with Lawrence at first, what with her traveling and long hours in her art studio—the studio he’d financed and built for her. But surprise, surprise, she’d fallen for him anyway, and celebrating her thirtieth birthday had made her long for something permanent. Something that said he held her above all others, that she wasn’t replaceable. For three more years she’d settled for focusing on her art and waiting, but then her mother died and put a whole new perspective on love, one Lawrence could never measure up to. By then their relationship seemed more like a habit than a love affair. Even now with her leaving him, he hadn’t protested...much.
Think it over, my dear, he’d said. Nothing needs to change.
Wrong! Everything had changed eight weeks ago, and if he thought she’d hang around forever waiting for him to propose marriage, he’d been terribly mistaken.
She attributed her change of heart to losing her mother so suddenly last year. They’d been estranged over Marta’s chosen lifestyle when an aortic aneurysm had suddenly taken her life. She’d never even gotten to say goodbye. Losing her mother had cut to the core, and she’d been determined ever since to honor her mother’s memory with Lawrence. He, however, wasn’t on the same page—that was the phrase he’d used when she’d first brought up the subject.
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