by Holly Rayner
Who would’ve thought that the best year of my life would’ve flown by so fast that it felt like a month? Sitting there on the wooden chair Brock had carved out himself, atop the orange paisley pillow provided by my mom, I could still barely believe all that had happened in 12 short months.
Only three months ago we had started the “Gumshoe Investigation Agency,” and already it was booming. There were so many clients that we had a waiting list, or a waiting notebook, more accurately. Sure, it was mostly Brock who got to do the legwork, chasing down the bad guys and missing items or people, but I still got the thrill of the hunt; he was constantly contacting me for information, routes, and advice on what to do next. I was the expert after all.
Though I wasn’t the only one who got to pursue my passion. Brock had sold four paintings since we’d moved near to Hermit Peak. Maybe it was because our whirlwind reuniting had taken place there, but Brock and I had fallen in love with Santa Fe and hadn’t left. Maybe we never would.
The city was chock-full of beautiful buildings and culture—an arts center in and of itself. Finding our house hadn’t been easy, but after touring close to twenty different options, it had been clear that one was right. As soon as we’d seen it, we’d known. It was the same adobe style as the ones I had seen during my harried search for Brock on Carson Valley Way, but that was where the similarities ended. It was set by itself, in no discernible neighborhood, and its style was as unique as it was pleasing. I still found myself stopping to enjoy its stunning effect; it made me feel as though I were in Spain or Mexico. The location, being close to the mountains, was the clincher.
How Brock had afforded it, he still wouldn’t say, though I thought it had something to do with the money he had saved up during his long-gone criminal days.
Nevertheless, our choice had paid off these past nine months. Since we’d bought the place, we had been blissfully happy and had taken long, relaxing walks at least every week. Yes, we really were lucky.
As our triplets slept soundly and my husband painted the walls, I rocked back and forth, back and forth. I lost myself in the soft rocking rhythm, in the pale flecks of yellow Brock was adding to the final wall—sweeping daffodils that swirled among the lilacs, bluebells, and pink roses.
“I’m warning you, Brock, you’re never going to get me out of here if you make their nursery this pretty,” I said.
“Then I’ll just have to paint the whole house, every room,” Brock replied, shooting a smirk my way.
I smiled to myself; his threat wouldn’t be the worst thing, even as well decorated as our house already was. Every new painting Brock made left me more speechless than the last, and if this nursery was any indication, the other rooms he painted wouldn’t be an exception.
After one more dab of paint on the wall, Brock said, “There, done.”
As he came over to me, I rose into his embrace. He held me and regarded his creation, while I turned my gaze to ours, the three babies flopped on their backs side by side in the cradle: Ian, Noelle, and Sasha.
“Still think we should do the picnic this afternoon?” I asked, and he nodded.
“Already bought the baguette and everything. Besides, it’s been a few days since I’ve gotten to check out the mountain.”
“Okay,” I said, extricating myself to go over to the crib. “We better pack up and wake up the little ones then.”
In the kitchen, I stood at the marble counter and assembled our arsenal of supplies: the baguette, a block of cheese, several clusters of grapes, a box of cereal, and a variety of chocolate bars. I tucked it all into one of the massive Tupperware boxes Tiffany had goaded me into purchasing on our furniture shopping spree, which now seemed so long ago.
I smiled at the thought of my dear friend. Tiffany and Kyle came to visit almost every month, and they were due to visit in a week or so. They were the triplets’ godparents after all.
“You ready?” Brock called from the nursery. “They woke up just in time.”
“Yup. All ready,” I called back.
A few seconds later, Brock came in, the three kids in his arms.
“Time for the tri-stroller!” he boomed.
The babies giggled as I wheeled in the teal, three-seat powerhouse of a stroller that had saved us from God only knew how many headaches.
We swept our three darlings into their spots, and then I got behind the handle and started pushing. Once out the door, it was a short walk to the trail to Hermit Peak. Lucky for us, this trail was a fairly smooth dirt one. While I had experience pushing the giant stroller over a wide range of terrain, a difficult surface meant a long trip with lots of breaks and Brock eventually taking over after I gave up on my attempts to get my pre-baby body back.
And so up we went, the babies gurgling their approval of the fresh air while Brock hauled the picnic supplies along.
I smiled at the trees we passed, at the tangles of wildflowers and woolly shrubs.
“You look beautiful today, you know,” Brock said.
I blushed, looking down at my hastily chosen jean skirt and gauzy white blouse. How was it that after over a year with this man he still had the ability to reduce me to a nervous schoolgirl?
“Where do you want to sit?” he asked. “Want to see if we can make it up all the way?”
A glance at the triplets revealed that they were as happy and enrapt in their surroundings as ever.
“Sure,” I said. “We’ll see how they handle the ascent. If they’re fine with it, then I am too.”
Brock came over and squeezed my hand.
“Good. It’s been too long since I saw the top. Think it’d be good for the kids to get to see it too.”
“You got it,” I said with a kiss on his cheek.
Incredibly, we made it up the whole mountain without any complaints from the three babies. It was as if they sensed today was the anniversary of our first meeting, that it was a special day.
Even when we reached the summit, however, we weren’t quite done with walking yet.
“Just a minute,” Brock said, pulling me along. “I want to show everyone my favorite spot.”
At this, Ian’s rosy little face in the front seat of the stroller darkened.
“Brock, are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s just five minutes more. Please, babe,” he said.
And so it was. I let him lead us past the nice-looking peak and farther off the path. We even climbed a hill until, finally, there it was.
“Wow,” I said.
It was all there really was to say, for right in front of me was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen.
It was a veritable sea of daylilies, individual blossoms that joined into one slightly swaying body of orange—a soft orange, a warm one, something like the color of contentment, of happiness.
“What do you think?” Brock whispered in my ear, and I responded with a kiss.
I almost lost myself there, against his firm lips and smooth-shaven face with the bed of daylilies before us.
But then Noelle sneezed and laughed, and we all laughed, our big, beautiful family.
Brock set a bag I hadn’t noticed before down on the ground. It was black and big, and, recognizing it, I glanced at his face in surprise.
“Is that…?”
He nodded.
“Thought we could paint like the other times if that’s all right with you.”
I nodded, a smile coming onto my face. Brock shot me a sidelong look.
“Think the kids would like it too?”
I laughed. “Guess we’ll have to see.”
Brock took out his supplies, the paintbrushes and strange, brand-less tubes of paint I’d never seen before. Then he took off Noelle’s shirt, and his flick of orange across her belly provoked a giggle.
She slapped it with her hand and then lifted her paint-smeared finger to her mouth.
“Oh, no. No, honey—”
Brock put his hand on my shoulder. “These paints are special. They’re homemade, edible.”
We watched Noelle suck on her orange-tipped thumb, and I kissed Brock.
And so, as our little darlings squirmed, giggled, and made smacking noises with their lips, Brock painted them.
There was a different flower for each baby. Noelle was first, a bright, vibrant sunflower covering her torso. Ian was more difficult, turning every which way and giggling at the havoc he caused for Daddy’s artistic efforts. Finally, Brock decided the smudges on Ian were actually blue cotton candy and continued with that in mind. Last was Sasha, who sat demurely, model-like, while Brock etched out a whole series of forget-me-nots on her tummy. I was last, my belly getting a garden of tulips in every color of the rainbow.
Then it was Brock’s turn. I helped the children, guiding their paintbrush-clutching hands, so that, together, we smeared Brock’s bare chest into some sort of abstract art creation. Ian was intent on short quick dashes of red and blue and, once they smeared together, purple. Noelle was more about using the green-tipped brush to makes speckles of green than actually painting. Sasha was annoyed by the whole ordeal, and, after one prolific yellow line from Daddy’s chin to his belly button, she gave up altogether.
Then all of us, paint-covered and delighted by it, hugged and kissed and rolled around in paint-covered glory until Brock suggested a swim might be in order.
“Up here?” I asked with surprise, and he nodded.
There was a strange look in his eyes. He seemed even more delighted than he had been before.
That’s when it occurred to me that this was just like our first two times together, our first day—the outdoor swim—and our reunion—the body painting. Could Brock have remembered that this day was special?
But when I glanced at him again, he was already picking up Ian and tucking him in the stroller, and the look in his eyes was gone. Maybe I had imagined it.
We packed the three babies into their stroller, and Brock wheeled it in the direction of some trees. Once surrounded by them, we walked for a few more minutes in quiet, contemplative silence before we reached the pond. It was a little oblong thing, a border of rocks on one side and some speckles of lily pads in the middle. It was perfect. A sliver of light shone through the trees, making everything glisten.
“Wow,” Brock and I said in unison, laughing and then kissing.
We stripped the babies down, took off our own clothes, and went in. Brock held the two girls, while I held our son. We used lily pads to scrub off the little specks of paint that didn’t seem to want to leave. The babies laughed at it all, splashing each other.
Ian broke into tears at one overly ambitious splash from his sister, so I returned to shore and soothed him, softly bouncing him in my arms and feeding him some cereal. This calmed him enough that he fell asleep. Soon Brock brought our daughters ashore and put them in the stroller since they too had fallen sound asleep. Now it was just Brock, me, and the forest.
We returned to the pond, kissed, and took delight in the water, the lily pads, and the crystal-clear forest air. Brock took my face in his hands.
“This is the best day,” I said.
“This is the best day of my life,” he said.
And we kissed some more. For a minute, the world stopped and I lost myself in the wonderful man in front of me.
The babies waking up and crying brought us back, reminding us of their needs.
“Let’s go back to the daylily field and have our picnic,” Brock said, and I agreed.
We made our way back through the forest, and once we were there, Brock laid down the rainbow blanket my mom had knitted for us, while I swept our children out of their seats. By the time I placed them on the blanket in front of us, they were more than ready for the box of cereal I had brought. Airplaning them their cereal on a plastic spoon was more for Brock’s and my enjoyment than theirs. And yet, oh how we laughed! With each swoop of the spoon and the eager snapping of their little mouths, we all whooped with delight, their fat cheeks veritably filled with it. Brock even swooped some cereal to me for fun before he began cutting the baguette and pairing each generous piece with an equally generous chunk of cheese.
“Are you trying to fatten me up?” I joked as I help up an especially humongous one.
Brock responded by kissing my cheek and whispering, “Just wait till you see the dessert.”
I studied his face.
“Dessert? I don’t remember packing any.”
Brock turned to the kids and winked.
“Good,” he said.
I sighed.
“Brock…”
He shook his head and grinned again.
“Nope. You have to finish your meal before you get dessert.”
So I did, holding myself back from devouring the full baguette, as delicious as it was.
As the kids flopped back onto the blanket, tired and dopey from all the food, I shot Brock a significant look.
“Well, Mr. Bossy, I finished my dinner.”
Brock shrugged.
“Think I dropped your gift on the way.”
I tossed a bit of cereal at him, which he snatched up in his mouth like a dog.
“Brock!”
“Okay, okay. Maybe it’s in the grass over there.”
Grudgingly, I got up and walked in the direction he had tossed his hand.
Nestled among some daylilies, I found the biggest chocolate chip cookie I had ever seen, in an even bigger transparent box on red and white striped paper, just like the bag I’d brought to his cabin a year ago.
Laughing, I picked it up.
“Seriously?” I asked him as I returned.
To which his still-glittering smile said, “Clearly you haven’t looked on the back yet.”
I flipped the big thing over and gasped.
Taped there was a jewelry box, the kind rings are stored in.
“Brock, you don’t mean…”
He reached past me, yanked the box free from the cookie, and got down on one knee.
“Yes, Alex, I do mean to propose to you. The first minute I saw you, the first night I spent with you, I knew there was something special about you. This year has just proven it to me all the more. I can’t remember ever being happier, ever feeling luckier. You support me, you hold me up, and you make me laugh. You’re gorgeous and astounding, and, if I’m going to be honest, Alex, I wanted to ask you this question a week after we moved in together, only I was afraid you’d say no. Now please, babe, will you make me even happier and be my wife?”
I fell to my knees. Face-to-face with Brock, our teary eyes staring into each other’s, I whispered, “Yes. Oh, of course. Yes, my love.”
And then we kissed while the children squealed their approval.
The rest of the day was the gooey aftermath. We played with the children, changed their diapers, and fed them more cereal. We kissed, rolled through the daylily-filled field, and grinned like idiots at each other.
And then, when the sun started to set, Brock led us back to the first cliff so we could watch the sunset.
The whole sky was rejoicing with us. It was a fiery, jubilant orange like the fields, the whole sky filled to the horizon with it, swooping over the black of far-off mountains, the tall, certain mounds, and the smaller, more plentiful hills. And as I gazed over at my handsome, doting husband-to-be and my adorable, gurgling children, their chocolate-rimmed mouths all smiling, their faces glowing orange with happiness, only one thought came to mind.
I had never been happier.
The End
Get THREE FREE BOOKS by signing up to my newsletter
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Servant To The Sheikh
And now, as promised, are the first few chapters of my previous novel, Servant To The Sheikh. Enjoy!
Chapter One
Audrey Parker zipped a black jacket over her taut torso and slipped the hood over her long, brunette curls, protecting herself from an onslaught of San Francisco rain. It was April, which meant the rain was either continuous or flirtatious, masquerading as a
heavy fog before pummeling into the Bay Area with a flurry of moisture.
Having lived in San Francisco since graduating from college nearly five years before, the now 27-year-old Audrey had learned her lesson one too many times, and thus she always kept a rain jacket on hand. It was in the nature of being prepared—something she had to be as a public relations representative. If she looked ragged, so did her client.
Standing in line at a nearby coffee shop, she scrolled through her social media feed and then did another read-through of the Wikipedia page of the stunning April Brevet, an actress she was preparing to meet around the corner.
The woman was tall, blond, and had a tight waist and a near-electric smile. April had starred in several sitcoms over the previous five years—many of which had been canceled halfway through their seasons. She had also been seen publicly volunteering at several soup kitchens and homeless shelters in the Bay Area and Los Angeles, making her a top-notch “philanthropist” A-lister, and someone Audrey needed to know—for work reasons, of course. Audrey had never been starstruck in her life. It was part of the reason she was so good at her job.
“A latte, skinny,” she said to the barista, sliding to the side to wait for the hot brew.
She’d long stuck to a fairly strict diet, allowing herself a single “fancy” coffee about once a week when the stress of her public relations position called for extra caffeine. In the past three months, since taking over as the PR head for Sheikh Jibril Rahal, she’d consumed a few too many lattes, if she was honest, given that drawing him away from his party-boy reputation was a difficult feat.
The Sheikh was the devilishly handsome CEO of Green Pastures Inc., a real-estate company worth billions that had headquarters in both San Francisco and the Sheikh’s home country of Ash-Kahlbi. Due to his origins, along with his status as one of the richest men in the world, he opted for the luxurious lifestyle, with fast cars, boats, and partying models.
He had thus become a mockery in countless tabloids, making his Green Pastures stocks fall. As a result, he’d hired Audrey, the hotshot PR whizz of San Francisco herself, and expected her to make miracles happen.