I released Unstoppable, which was Mike Ripton’s contribution to the series of boxer books. The book was an immediate hit, climbing to number one in a matter of days. It’s sales quickly surpassed every book I’d written. I attributed its success partially to the wild sex scenes, but more so to the readers attaching themselves to the character’s belief system.

He was a vigilante, of sorts. He stood up for the heroine in the original book, taking care of her abusive ex when he physically abused her. It seemed everyone adored Mike Ripton for his willingness to do what most would not. He stepped in when most men would step away.

Immediately following the release of Unstoppable, I wrote a book of murder and mayhem. The manuscript was finished quickly, taking about ten days from beginning to end. While writing the story, Jess advised me that I wouldn’t be writing another book like it anytime soon. She claimed I turned into an emotional disaster while crafting the tale.

I became so immersed in my characters, that I thought like them, ate like them, and even dressed like them. While writing Undefeated, I, no differently than the Hero, wore a hoodie everywhere I went.

For twenty hours a day through the entire course of writing the manuscript, I wore it.

Fully aware that I spent my writing time in character, I agreed with Jessica regarding the torturous novel.

It was mid-morning, which was late for Jess to arrive. While seated at my perch pecking away on my next story in the boxer series, she walked in and flopped down on the couch behind me.

She hadn’t kissed me.

We had a rule that we started and ended our days with a kiss. Without exception. Additionally, we always went to bed at night only after telling each other I love you.

Something was wrong.

I peered over my shoulder. “Everything okay?”

She was crying.

I climbed down off my stool and sat down beside her. “What’s wrong, Baby?”

Her lip was quivering. Upon realizing I was looking at her, she turned away, embarrassed. I lifted my finger to her chin and forced her to face me.

Then, I kissed her.

“You’ve got to talk to me, Baby. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

She raised her left hand and extended her index finger. Then, she reached into her purse with her right hand. After fumbling around for a moment, she lifted her cupped hand from her purse.

She held her clenched hand over my lap.

I opened my hand.

She dropped a pregnancy test into my palm. “I’m pregnant.”

I was elated. My eyes quickly welled with tears. I shot up from my seat and held the plastic proof of the child we shared between us. “Is uhhm. Is this the one I get to keep?”

She wiped her eyes, and then coughed out half a laugh. “What?”

“This pregnancy test. Is it mine?” I asked excitedly. “Can I keep it?”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

I looked at the pen-like object. Two darkened lines filled the window. A smile formed on my face. “This is awesome.”

She stood. “You’re not mad?”

I scrunched my nose. “Mad? Why would I be mad?”

“Because I’m pregnant.”

“I told you when this started that I was committed to you and to this relationship. I told you I was ready to have kids with you.”

“I thought that was a line of shit,” she said, wiping away tears as she spoke. “That you were just talking.”

I shook my head. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.” I kissed her, and then looked her in the eyes. “You’re not mad, are you?”

Her eyes gleamed like diamonds. She shook her head. “Not at all. When I called you last night, I was hinting at this. Trying to, anyway. You didn’t give me the answers I wanted, so I thought you were going to be mad.”

“You were talking in circles. I hadn’t slept in two days. You asked me if I was ready to treat you like my wife. I said yes. That wasn’t the answer you wanted?”

She laughed and cried at the same time, smiling all the while. “I don’t know what I wanted. I was scared.”

I led her into the bedroom by her hand and placed the pregnancy test in the top drawer of my dresser. Then, I walked into the living room and paused in the center of what we called the dance floor. It was a nine-foot by twelve-foot area of the loft that was marked by an ornamental rug.

We often danced there during the middle of the day, always driven by nothing more than impulse.

While Blind Pilot’s 3 Rounds and a Sound played, I pulled her close. Then, without instruction or a spoken word, we began to dance. She laid her head against my chest. I realized she was wearing the chevron top that she’d worn on the day of our first kiss, and I grinned.

She was truly a remarkable woman. To share a child with her would be the greatest gift God could bestow upon us. My life was slowly becoming a dream, and I had her to thank for it.

When the song ended, she raised her head.

“What was that about?”

“Baby Dance,” I said.

She smiled. “What?”

“It’s the baby dance.”

She kissed me, and then laid her head against my chest again. “Let’s do it again.”

We did just that, dancing once again like God was the only one watching.