by Kim Karr
“Hey, I’ll be back tonight—can we talk then?” I answer over the rain and wind.
“No, wait, Maggie, don’t hang up.”
“What is it?” I ask as a nasty gust of wind propels me forward, causing me to lose my balance and step right into a black, slushy puddle of mud on Fifty-ninth Street that I really, truly hope is mud.
No.
No.
No!
“I have been trying to reach you for over twelve hours. Is everything okay?” Makayla asks.
Standing like a flamingo perched not so gracefully on one submerged foot, I consider my options as I answer her. “I was really tired last night and went to bed early, and now I’m late. Can we please talk tonight?”
“Yes, sure. I was just worried about you. It’s not like you to not answer your phone.”
Dropping my foot in the pool of hell, I stand utterly still and stare at the Time Warner Center. My destination is so close. “Don’t be. I’m fine. I love you.”
She’s still talking but I can’t hear her over the rain and the traffic, and my toes are screaming from my shoes to get the hell out of the foulness I’m standing in.
“Maggie!”
I know that voice.
I push the phone even closer to my ear. “Is someone with you, Makayla?”
“No, why?” she asks.
“Maggie!”
Okay, the voice is not coming from the phone. I turn, and search for the voice I’d know anywhere.
And then I spot him. Keen, with his thick dark hair and sparkling blue eyes and drop-dead-gorgeous looks, sitting in the front of a carriage on the perimeter of Central Park.
With a white horse.
A white horse.
“I have to call you back, Makayla.”
Staring at Keen in shock, I drop my phone in my purse, and I’m not even sure it makes it in there.
I don’t care.
All I care about is this man—brilliant and wild and crazy, and coming for me like some Prince Charming out of a fairy tale.
In five long strides Keen is standing in front of me. “Maggie.”
My whole body is shaking. “Keen. What are you doing here?”
Acting more like a knight than the naughty boyfriend I know him to be, he bends and kisses my hand tenderly. “I need to talk to you and it couldn’t wait.”
All I can do is stand in shock.
Him.
Here.
And the white horse.
The.
White.
Horse.
Straightening to his full height, he places his hands on my face and pulls me to him for one earth-shattering kiss.
“Keen,” I say around his lips.
As he stares at me with those bright blue eyes that make me feel like today is the warmest day of the year, he puts a finger over my lips and continues staring at me for a long, long time.
I swear he is covered in sunshine on this dreary day, and all I can do is stare back as I try to comprehend exactly what this is. I told him about the baby. Told him I couldn’t talk—that we’d talk today. Rather than wait, he flew out from California last night. He came to see me. He’s here in New York. And this is not a dream. I don’t dream that way, or didn’t . . . until him.
His grin grows wide and then, like a prince out of some fairy tale, he lifts me out of the Manhattan cesspool that we are both now standing in. And with all his brute strength, he carries me in his arms across the street to the waiting carriage.
Once he sets me down right beside the white horse, he drops down on one knee and pulls a shiny box from his coat pocket.
I watch as his fingers open the box and I forget how to breathe. I wait, each moment longer than the last, my entire body trembling from my head to my toes. And then the box is open, and even in the dreariness of the rain and the gray clouds, the ring inside it sparkles so bright it’s nearly blinding.
“Maggie,” he says. His voice is a little shaky, but it still manages to ooze sexiness. “I might not have known it, but I do now. I loved you from the moment I saw you under the haze of the purple lights. With your smile so much like summer and your eyes so full of curiosity and wonder, you hit me at first sight like no one ever has.”
My hands fly to my mouth and I fight back tears.
This is so romantic.
“Every day I find myself wanting to tell you things I’ve never told anyone. Every day I know will be better because you are sharing it with me. I might not have known what love is, but I know now it’s you. You are everything I could ever want or need in my life, and I can’t live without you.”
With my pulse pounding in my ears, I look down, trembling, shaking, and happier than I ever knew anyone could be. This is so not me, or the old me. But I’ve changed with him, and I love who I am now maybe even better than who I was before.
“Maggie May,” he says, in a voice that sounds like dripping honey, “will you marry me and be my wife?”
As I look down at him, I’m still not able to breathe. “I don’t want to get married just because of circumstances.”
Confusion furrows his brow. “Circumstances might have sped this up, but you were always the one for me. From the moment I saw you downing that whiskey, it was you. And I think you know that.”
Laughing a little, I finally remember to breathe. “Are you sure?”
“Never more sure about anything in my whole fucking entire life.”
“Say it again, Keen Masters.”
That grin is sly, and yet humble—so freaking adorable. “Maggie May, will you marry me?”
So, without another second of hesitation, I yank him to his feet and throw myself at him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“Don’t fucking hang up on me again,” he breathes harshly in my ear.
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to do.”
His head is shaking back and forth. “You’re enough to make a grown man cry,” he says quietly. This time his voice is hoarse, and yet still so incredibly deep.
And that right there. That. It’s enough to bring me to my knees.
Both lost to emotion, neither of us are able to speak, so instead we cling to each other right in front of Central Park, and with a white horse beside us.
With my face pressed into his shoulder, I breathe in the scent of him—Cartier and that distinctive scent that is all him. The scent that yesterday I was uncertain I would ever breathe again. I shake a little at the thought, and his hands smooth down my back to comfort me.
And then he pulls back and looks at me. Still shaking, I watch as he removes the glittering diamond from its cushy nest.
Never, ever did I think this would be something I would be doing. And that is the God’s honest truth.
I suck in a breath and blink away the new tears welling in my eyes.
One of his big, callused hands with those magic fingers slides the ring on me. Dazed, I look down at the large diamond and the band that holds it covered in small brilliant diamonds, and then suddenly everything feels so right. Perfect even. Still full of disbelief, I throw my arms around his neck again. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you,” he whispers in my ear.
As raindrops fall down on both of us, I squeeze him even tighter. He twirls me and twirls me until I can’t see straight, and then he sets me down and asks, “Are you really having my baby?”
As if it might be a possibility he misunderstood me, I find myself smiling in the way that only he makes me smile. “Yes, I am.”
The thrill in his eyes isn’t anything that can be denied and I throw myself in his arms again. Right now it’s the only place I want to be.
And this time when he twirls me, and twirls me, and twirls me, I think, yes, I do believe in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters . . . because this man is without a doubt my very wicked Prince Charming.
Keen
I was expecting a flying Elvis or two.
I was expecting guitars, white jumpsuits, big glasses, and a pink C
adillac, but that wasn’t what I got.
Instead I got heaven.
The chapel is swathed in a bluish glow that sparkles off the silver chairs. The carpet is white. There are lights everywhere. And there are even clouds painted on the ceiling.
The Elvis on duty dons an open-necked black jumpsuit with red rhinestones and a pair of aviators.
Spot-on look-alike.
My palms are sweaty and I wipe them on my slacks. I am ready for this. Ready to be about more than myself. Ready to allow my world to revolve around more than my success, around more than my anything.
But do I deserve her? I have no fucking clue. Really, I don’t know anything aside from one very real fact . . . I love this girl.
I am in love with Maggie May.
Whatever the definition of love is, it’s what we share, and maybe it’s a fucked-up version or maybe it’s crazy or maybe it’s upside down and backwards at the same time, but whatever it is, it is real.
Up at the altar, I wait impatiently for the woman that I call mine to make an appearance. And then she does.
Like a vision, I take her in. Her short white dress. Her long blond hair with flowers pinned in it. The white sparkly Converse sneakers we bought on the way here because her feet were hurting her in her fuck-me white pumps.
We will save those for later.
And then I look at myself in my white suit, black shirt, white tie . . . and think I can’t believe we are really doing this.
We are getting married.
Eloping, really.
Slowly she walks down the aisle with a bouquet of white flowers to a crescendo of guitars and rock and roll, and when she reaches me, she takes my face in her hands. “Are you sure about this?” she asks.
More than a little cocky, I nod. “I’ve never been more sure in my life, sweetheart.”
She laughs, and I do too.
Hey, when you got it, you got it.
Maggie and I flew straight from New York City to Las Vegas. We can celebrate with friends later, but I needed to make her my wife now. After this, we’ll spend a few days here in Vegas, and not at the tables, and then fly to Graceland for a short honeymoon.
I still can’t believe this.
I love this woman.
And she’s having my baby!
Sure, I might have had a moment of complete freak-out, but I came around pretty fucking fast, you have to admit.
I mean really, how could I not?
A baby.
She and I are having a baby.
Not Cam and Makayla, the perfect couple, but Maggie and I, the most imperfectly perfect couple.
Turns out the antibiotics Maggie took when she was sick after our New York trip weeks ago counteracted the effects of the pill.
Hey, who would have thought?
“Love Me Tender” starts to play and then Elvis is standing in front us, and we’re exchanging vows, and then Elvis is pronouncing us husband and wife.
And we are married.
We.
Are.
Married.
“Smile,” Elvis croons.
And we do. At each other, with each other, even on each other.
Crazy.
Insane.
Intense.
And real.
Love—it’s a four-letter word I’m no longer afraid of . . . because of her.
“That’s the one,” Maggie says, practically jumping up and down.
“You sure?” Elvis asks in that husky voice of his.
Really excited, she takes his camera and shows me the picture. In it I’m licking my tongue up her cheek.
All I can do is shake my head. Guess that will be the picture to remind us of this day. When I look again, I have to smile at it. Perfect. Fucking perfect. Shifting my gaze to Maggie, I can’t help but think . . .
It’s all or nothing.
All or nothing.
Maggie
The lines of their bodies cross in the most artful way.
I think I could stare at the photos for hours—eyes filled with desire, heads bent as if in search of what can only be pleasure, backs arched and ready, legs intertwined just for the physical connection.
“What are you doing?”
Crap!
I shove the book back on the rack and look up to find Makayla’s mouth all twisted in a knot. “Nothing, just taking a little break from baby books, that’s all.”
She shoves a different book in my hands. I look down at it: Nine Months Along.
Great!
I’m already experiencing it; do I really have to read about it? To pacify Makayla, though, I feign interest and open to a random page to start reading. “You might have a very overactive sexual drive,” are the first words I read and then start laughing in fits and giggles.
Much to my chagrin, she laughs right along with me.
Yeah, thanks for that tidbit, Nine Months Along.
It makes me laugh because although the description fits the stage of my pregnancy at thirty-seven weeks, it also describes me all the time.
Sex with Keen is always . . . well, to be blunt, freaking fantastic.
Then again, from our first time together in that hotel room in New York City, I knew that what we had was different from anything else I’d ever experienced.
That he had wrecked me for any other man.
To this day I still don’t know how I knew—I just did. Maybe no one I had been with before had ever made me feel the way he did. Then again, it could have been our intense chemistry. Perhaps our strong connection. Or simply that we were two lost puzzle pieces who had found each other.
Being in love has even made me poetic. And yes, that makes me roll my eyes at myself.
It’s just everything about him—every touch, caress, word, and whisper—makes my body come alive in an instant.
And now, even though my belly is swollen beyond belief, I want him more than ever.
That is why while Makayla was perusing the pregnancy section of the bookstore for me yet again, I was looking for a book on sexual positions for pregnant women. Sadly, there are none that I could find.
“Come on,” she says, setting the book down, “we need to finish the list.”
Yes, the list. The list of things every baby needs. All of which, mind you, I’m pretty certain are already in the nursery.
Yet, to put my best friend’s mind at ease, I play along with her that yes, I need five pacifiers because four just won’t do, and that seven baby blankets might not be enough in case I don’t get to the laundry during the week.
Something tells me Makayla will be driving from Laguna to West Hollywood and doing the baby’s laundry if that ever happens.
Amidst the twinkling white lights of the Christmas tree that I can’t believe is already up when Thanksgiving isn’t even until next week, I manage to sneak back and take another peek at the book titled Sex Masters. Hey, it’s our last name, so why not? It has 365 different positions. Although not specifically for pregnancy, it can’t hurt to have.
At this point not much can hurt anything.
Besides, I’m pissy, moody, and hormonal, and right now I want what I want.
Believe it or not, Keen has dealt with my mood swings quite well. In fact, he’s been happy to indulge my every need, and without smart-ass comments, too.
Who would have thought?
Not me.
In fact, whether it’s a pint of double fudge brownie non-dairy ice cream at midnight I crave, or plain spaghetti with no sauce at 6 a.m., or my constant state of arousal that needs satisfying, he’s there ready, willing, and able. Of course he’s not complaining about all the sex.
It’s kind of like he’s at my beck and call. But I’m not even going to think that way for long because if he knew I was, well . . . let’s just say . . . I’d probably be at his beck and call.
That alpha in him has an ego—and luckily I’ve learned to stroke it, instead of fighting it. This way, in the end, I usually get my way.
Some things, tho
ugh, are out of both of our abilities to conquer. Like sex. Now that my body has changed, certain sexual positions have grown uncomfortable and some aren’t even feasible. This has become a daily challenge, hence why I put the book into the cart while Makayla’s back was turned.
She’s worried that I shouldn’t be having so much sex. She says she read somewhere that it can cause early labor. I’ve read at least a dozen pregnancy books, and have yet to read that.
After shopping all morning, I can’t wait to get home and put my feet up. Even in my Converse, they are hurting from all the walking she made me do.
Since Keen is out at the rock-climbing gym with Cam and Brooklyn, as soon as I step foot in the door, I decide to take a long, soothing bath.
Unable to bear the warm water, I get out much too soon.
Graceland, the oversized basset hound we brought home one Saturday when we stopped by the animal shelter and her big brown eyes screamed she belonged to us, starts barking, and I know immediately what that means.
He’s home.
Smiling, I walk into our bedroom in nothing but my oversized T-shirt. Watching the doorway, I tug the towel off my head and let my hair dangle down my back. Just then I hear the jingle of the dog collar, and I know Gracie, short for Graceland, is following Keen down the hallway of what used to be my mother’s house, which now belongs to Keen and me.
As silly as it sounds, knowing I’m going to see him in mere seconds makes my heart skip a beat.
“Maggie?” he calls.
“In our bedroom,” I answer.
With that huge smile that I love to see, Keen strides into the room freshly showered from the gym and looking like a million dollars, and as suspected, Gracie, the hound dog that she is, is right on his heels. Like me, she can’t seem to stay away from him.
Long and lean in a pair of jeans that should be outlawed for men, he crosses the room, plants a kiss on my lips, and then bends and places another on my stomach. “How was shopping?”
My nipples tighten at his simple touch, and I hate that I get wet every single time I see him. “Not as bad as I thought it would be. We checked everything off the list, and I got something for us, too.”
Interest piqued, he stands straight and nuzzles my neck. “Oh yeah, should I try to guess?”