by Shen, L. J.
Madison explained her mother wrote letters to her throughout her journey fighting cancer, to immortalize her feelings toward her daughter long after she herself was gone. Naturally, I was interested. I asked Madison if she could email me copies of those letters. She said she could. I spent many nights reading Iris Goldbloom’s letters to her daughter. She was, I suspect, a fine woman.
I have tried to write many letters to you, Julian, Kate, and Clementine. But in truth, expressing my feelings in words has never been my forte. I suppose I am more of a show-don’t-tell type of man. Until today. I finally found something worth writing to you. Something that wouldn’t feel mundane or utterly dull.
Today, I found out that your relationship with Madison was a sham. That you did it, in part, to pacify me. The fact that you went to such great lengths to ensure my peace of mind touches me.
I love you.
I am proud of you.
And your engagement to Maddie? While I suppose you thought it had everything to do with me and nothing to do with you, I knew, the day I saw your eyes light up in the Hamptons when she showed up for that late dinner, that she was the one.
Treat her well. Take care of your mother. Protect your sister. Help raise your niece.
Oh, and try not to kill your brother.
Love,
Dad
I tucked Dad’s letter into my breast pocket, before tightening my bow tie in front of the mirror in the small-ass bedroom with the dated yellow wallpaper. I looked sharp in a Black & Co. black suit.
“You know what stuns me the most?” Grant asked beside me, running a hand over his hair. Of course my best man wanted to look good in front of the maid of honor, a.k.a. Layla. He still hadn’t gotten over being rejected. I doubted it was even in his vocabulary.
“My wicked good looks?” I asked wryly. From the corner of my eye, I saw Julian shake his head, ducking down and adjusting Clementine’s floral crown. She was the flower girl, and what a flower girl she was. Mad had designed a dress especially for her, after much consultation and fuss that suggested Clementine would be the one making the vows today. “Fools,” Julian muttered with a smile on his face. “Never get married, Clemmy.”
“Oh, but I want to, Daddy.” Her eyes widened. “With Chase.”
Grant chuckled, turning back to me. “What stuns me is that Maddie still chose to marry you, even though she knows what kind of a cocky, arrogant, bas—” Grant was about to finish his sentence, but Booger Face’s head flew up, and she stared at him expectantly. She had been dying for someone to screw up and roll a five-dollar bill into her potty-word jar. She was counting on new Barbie bicycles for Christmas.
“Stop it right there, good sir,” Julian warned. Clementine faltered.
“Bassist,” Grant finished. “Did you know your uncle can play the bass guitar, Clem?” He spun to where she was standing by the bed, flashing her a dazzling grin.
“No.” She narrowed her eyes, skeptical. “He can’t.”
“I smell a challenge.” I grinned.
“I think what you smell is the sole of my shoe in your butt for being unfashionably late.” Layla poked her head into my suite. And when I said suite, I meant Mr. Goldbloom’s master bedroom.
Yes, I was getting married in a town house in Pennsylvania.
No, I was not out of my mind. Clinically, anyway.
“Looking good, Layla.” Grant saluted his green-haired ex-hookup.
She flashed him an easy smile. “Same, Grant. How’s life been treating you?”
“Better than you did,” I muttered into my whiskey, emptying it in one gulp. Layla took Booger Face by the hand, leading her to the bride’s suite (read: Mad’s childhood bedroom). Grant and Julian ushered me to the altar in the backyard. Julian was the first in line behind me, then Grant. Behind them stood all the men Madison had fake-married from her neighborhood. Layla had thought it’d be hilarious to invite them. I thought Layla’s sense of humor sucked, but I was a good sport about it, because I knew Mad would get a kick out of it. Standing behind Grant were Jacob Kelly, Taylor Kirschner, Milo Lopez, Aston Giudice, Josh Payne, and Luis Hough.
Contrary to Madison’s, the only ex of mine who was in attendance was Amber, who was currently sitting on one of the folded white chairs in front of the wedding arch, her sunglasses on, huffing into her glass of fizzy wine and complaining about the lack of French champagne. Mad had chosen to have a very modest event. My martyr bride was donating most of our wedding budget to a cancer-research charity. My mom and Katie sat beside Amber, who attended for the sake of playing nice with the Blacks. It didn’t seem fair that Booger Face should suffer just because things hadn’t worked out between Amber and Julian. Ethan clasped Katie’s hand and shot me a thumbs-up. I gave him a curt nod. I still didn’t approve of running tights and Dora the Explorer ties but didn’t much care about his wardrobe anymore.
Katie had been dating Ethan seriously for four months now. Two months after Dad died, Ethan officially asked her out. Until then, he was just there for her emotionally, but I could see he was dead scared of getting friend zoned again. In fact, I was the one who’d told him to seal the deal before she gave up on his ass.
They were now preparing for their first (entire, not half) marathon together.
Mom was doing well, too, all circumstances considered. It helped that Mad and Clementine were around a lot and that Julian was attached to her by the hip postdivorce, trying to find his footing as a father after getting joint custody of Booger Face.
Amber was slowly introducing Clementine’s biological father into her life. So far, so awkward, but Booger Face had us when things got too weird.
Then there was Sven, Francisco, and their newly adopted girl, Zooey, sitting in the front row. They were all wearing matching black outfits, waving Zooey’s chubby hand in my direction with enthusiastic smiles. The adoption had been finalized three months earlier and couldn’t have come at a better time. Mad and I were butting heads about who was to move into whose apartment. Sven pointed out he might need babysitting assistance, so Mad relented and moved in with me. They’d become closer in recent months, since Mad had stood up for herself with the Dream Wedding Dress and become his equal.
I’d paid for Zooey’s entire room design and furniture for that little favor.
The pastor beside me fidgeted, pulling me out of my reverie. He let out a little gasp, and when I looked up, there she was. The woman of my dreams, wearing the dress of her dreams. Words seemed small for that moment. I flashed her a smile as she walked down the aisle, escorted by her father, Clementine throwing moonflowers out of a decorated basket behind her, Layla holding the hem of her train.
Mad stopped beside me, awarding me with one of her magnificent smiles.
A smile that made the world stop.
I looked down, about to tell her any of the five hundred thousand things that sprang into my mind. That she looked fucking delicious in that dress, which had been a huge success during New York Fashion Week and had already sold thirty thousand gowns, give or take, making it Croquis’s second-most popular wedding dress. I wanted to tell her I loved her. Very. Fucking. Much. But before I could say any of those things, Mad turned around, opened her palm, and waited for Layla to drop her cell phone into her hand.
All the attendees in her father’s backyard sucked in a scandalized gasp. She was texting. Now.
Mad’s fingers began to move over the screen as she typed, a small smile playing on her face. I watched her, as did the rest of our guests. The pastor cleared his throat, trying—and failing—to draw her attention. My phone pinged in my pocket a second later.
I took it out. Opened the message.
Chase: Oh, no, you didn’t.
Maddie: Cold feet.
Chase: You can warm them on my back when we get to Ibiza for our honeymoon. Bad circulation has always been your problem. It’s a short-people thing.
Maddie: Getting farther away from getting marr
ied by the second.
Chase: Spill it. What did you delete?
Maddie: Promise you won’t freak out?
I looked up at her, arching an eyebrow as if to say, Do we even know each other? She looked back down and typed.
Maddie: I’m pregnant.
Chase: Is it mine?
Maddie: Are you for real?!
She looked up, rose on her tiptoes, and flicked the back of my neck. I laughed, scooping her into my arms in front of our shocked pastor. And guests. And her harem of boys she’d “married” when she was younger.
“Then why the hell would I get freaked out?” I murmured into her lips, propriety be damned. She wrapped her arms around me. The crowd cackled.
“Your horns are showing, Mr. Black.”
“That,” I whispered into her mouth, catching her lower lip between my teeth and tugging, speaking low enough our audience couldn’t hear, “is because for you, I’m always horny.”
January 1, 2002
Dear Maddie,
Can you do your mom a very weird favor? When the time comes, marry a man you can laugh with. You have no idea how important it is until you hit those sad days and the only thing to make them better is someone to put a smile on your face.
On your wedding day, make him sweat a little. Make sure he misses a heartbeat or two. See if he takes it in stride. If he does—he’s a keeper (but you should already know that. Ha).
Love,
Mom. x
MADDIE
Eight months later
“I hate you so much.” I grabbed the lapels of my husband’s blazer, shaking him from my disadvantaged position on the hospital bed. I was past sweating and deep into dripping territory. It looked like I’d just walked out of the shower without patting myself dry with a towel. Not to mention I was about to purge a human out of my body. Yes, I was aware that women all over the world did that on a daily basis, many of them without access to Western medical assistance. But in my defense, none of these women were married to Chase Black.
“Is that a no?” Chase frowned, straightening his posture and taking a step back before I stabbed his eye out with the nearest available object.
“No, I don’t want to speed up the process by having sex with you. It doesn’t work that way. I’m already four centimeters dilated!”
“I have at least eight more inches I can fit into yo—”
“Do not complete that sentence.” I jerked a finger in his direction. He raised his palms in surrender, taking another step back.
Layla rushed into my room, looking a little worse for wear. “Okay, just wanted you to know Daisy is with her dog sitter . . .” She paused, side-eyeing both Chase and me. “Sorry, I still can’t believe I have to say this with a straight face. And I watered all your plants, which means they are all alive.”
Daisy was doing amazing. She never peed in anyone’s shoes since Chase and I had gotten back together. Apparently, all I’d needed to do in order to rid her of the nasty habit was let the right man through my door. I opened my mouth to say something, but Layla waved me off. “Yes, including the azalea in the pantry. God, to think this giant pantry could be put to good use. How’s little Ronan doing?”
“Still inside my body.” I pointed at my huge belly.
“Lucky bastard,” Chase muttered. Layla elbowed him. I laughed. The past eight months had been a dream. Who knew that the devilishly handsome man with the mouth I wanted to punch and kiss in the same breath could be such a great husband? We’d fallen into a comfortable routine full of family and friends and laughter. We spent a lot of time with Zooey, Sven, and Francisco, as well as with Clemmy, who was obsessed with her flower girl dress and, following in my footsteps, had recently forced a classmate to marry her during a playdate. Ronan seemed like a perfect addition to an already big and loving family.
Another contraction slammed through me. It felt like someone had taken a match and lit my entire lower back. I winced, gripping the linen to the point of white knuckles. One of my nurses—Tiffany, a redheaded woman in her fifties—walked into the room, and Layla figured it was getting crowded, saluting on her way out. The nurse peeked under the blanket covering my legs.
“Yup. He is ready for his grand entrance into the world, all right. Keep breathing.” She patted my knee. I’d never quite understood this expression. Did one ever stop breathing voluntarily? Specifically while giving birth?
Tiffany left the room, called the doctor, then poked her head back in. “What’s it gonna be? Is Daddy staying in to watch the birth?”
Chase and I exchanged glances. We’d planned every single thing about the birth in detail—the overnight bag we’d packed together when I was only seven months pregnant, the labor classes we’d taken, the breastfeeding plan—but we’d never talked about whether he was going to stay and watch or not.
“Up to you.” He cleared his throat. We held each other’s eyes. For a second, I thought we’d take out our phones and do the old banter dance-off. Then my husband surprised me by taking my hand. “Please.”
And I knew.
“Yes.” I grinned. “He stays.”
Forty-five minutes later, Ronan was out in the world, screaming up a storm. He had Chase’s bright-blue-silver eyes, my brown-honey hair, and two clenched fists with curiously long fingernails. He was like a baby dragon. I laughed and cried when Tiffany put him on my bare chest. Because I knew he was a gift from Mom and Ronan.
In fact, that was the one thing I’d written to baby Ronan in the very first letter I sat down to compose to him when I found out I was pregnant. One of many I intended to write. I told him he was a great, precious gift who wasn’t supposed to happen. That his daddy and I had been careful—I was on the pill and took it daily. The week the manufacturer of my birth control pills came out with a grand apology for their faulty pills, I’d realized I was a week and a half late. The idea of being pregnant hadn’t even registered to me before that, so I never kept up with the dates.
I took a pregnancy test. It was positive.
Chase and I were engaged to be married. But we still hadn’t spoken about the other C-word—children. I remembered the moment I’d found out. I sat on the closed toilet seat in Croquis’s restroom, ironically in the very stall where Chase and I had had sex months before, staring at the two blue lines, then looking up to the ceiling and smiling at the sky.
“Touché, Ronan and Mom.” I’d shaken my head. “Touché.”
Now, I had a son. Someone to love. To write letters to. To see grow.
I watched Chase pick him up, all bundled up like a burrito, with his little stripy hat. My husband smiled down at him, and my heart swelled.
“How I got her to say yes to me? Why, yes, Ronan, that’s a funny story. Let me tell you all about it . . .”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
They say writing is a lonely job, and while I agree with that statement wholeheartedly, it is definitely gratifying to see your name on a book cover and take pride in having your hard work be recognized.
This book, however, is the fruit of many wonderful women’s labor, and I would like to take this opportunity to thank them properly.
First and foremost, big thanks to my agent, Kimberly Brower. I wanted to do something different this year, and you made it happen. I couldn’t have asked for a better copilot to navigate my way in the publishing world.
My editors at Montlake Publishing, Lindsey Faber and Anh Schluep. Thank you so much for your amazing work, mind-blowing expertise, and excellent attention to detail. Knowing Chase and Maddie were in such capable hands made this process flawless.
Special thanks to my PA, Tijuana Turner, and beta readers, Sarah Grim Sentz, Vanessa Villegas, and Lana Kart. You ladies are my tribe.
To my best author friends, Charleigh Rose, Parker S. Huntington, Ava Harrison, and Helena Hunting. You inspire me. Thank you for holding my hand throughout this process.
To my kick-ass street team and the Sassy Sparrows Facebook group—you guys are the best! I said it before, a
nd I’ll keep saying this: you push me to become better at what I do.
To my husband and son, who are endlessly patient. Thank you for being understanding when I slip into a parallel universe and spend time with my characters.
To the bloggers and bookstagrammers who constantly BRING IT. Words cannot describe how grateful I am for the time and effort you put into your passion. You are true artists.
There are so many other people who made this book happen. Yamina Kirky, Marta Bor, Amy Halter, Ratula Roy, and more. Unfortunately, I’m notoriously bad at remembering everyone I need to thank when writing this section. Please take mercy if I haven’t included you but should have.
Finally, I’d like to thank you, my readers. I thank my lucky stars for you every day. Writing is a privilege. Being able to pay the bills writing? Well, that is nothing short of a miracle.
Thank you.
All my love,
L.J. Shen
xoxo
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
L.J. Shen is a USA Today, Washington Post, and Amazon #1 bestselling author of contemporary, new adult, and romance titles. She likes to write about unapologetic alpha males and the women who bring them to their knees. Her books have been sold to twenty different countries and have appeared on some of their bestseller lists. She lives in California with her husband, son, and eccentric fashion choices, and she enjoys good wine, bad reality TV shows, and catching sunrays with her lazy cat.