Nicholas

 

 

"A book?" I straddle her. We fucked and then not two minutes later she whispered in my ear that she's considering an offer for a book deal from my publisher. "You're not serious?"

She pushes against my chest, a motion meant to urge me to roll to my side. I do. I prop my head up on one hand and stare down at her.

Jesus, she's beautiful. Her hair is a mess, her lips swollen from my teeth and tongue. She looks well fucked and loved.

"I haven't given them an answer." Her eyes take on a warm gleam. "I was honored that they even approached me. I'm a fashion designer, not a writer."

That's a lie. She's been writing to our baby in a journal. It's something she picked up from Cadence, although she hasn't yet told her best friend we're expecting. I've read her words and fuck me; they're filled with everything my heart wants to say.
She encouraged me to fill in pages of the journal with my own words, but I can't. I tried. I can write the hell out of a novel about murder and intrigue but I can't lay down a sentence for the child I can't wait to meet.

"When did they make the offer?" I'm curious. I've been on a book tour the last two weeks. I dialed it back after what happened to Sophia, but I've spent more than a few hours with my contact from the publishing house. He hasn't said a word about this although that's not surprising. I doubt like hell Sophia was offered a deal from the same imprint as my books.

"Yesterday." She blinks. "I told them I needed to talk to the man I love."

I'm glad. I would have been pissed if she would have given them an answer without my input. This is my wheelhouse. I'm the expert in this arena.

"I take it they want you to write about what happened with Franco?"

A smile ghosts her mouth. "That's the conclusion anyone would jump to in a situation like this."

"That's not an answer, Sophia." I rub my hand over her bare stomach. "What's the book about?"

"Love."

I press my hand to her breast. "Love? As in your love for me?"

She nods. "I might have done something right after we met."

I quirk both brows. "What might you have done?"

"This is embarrassing." She shields her eyes with both hands. "I started a blog."
"You what?"
"I started a blog about falling in love." She peeks out from between her splayed fingers. "All these women had these dating blogs and I'd read them. They were filled with so much doom and gloom."

"So you wanted to rewrite their stories?" I ask, mild confusion etching my words.

"No." She drops her hands. "I wanted to write my story. It was cathartic and helpful, and every night after I worked on my designs, I'd log on and write a post about that day.

"About us that day?"

"Sometimes." Her gaze drops to her stomach. "The blog has two parts. Past and present."

"Your past relationships and your present one?" I tap my forehead. "I think I'm catching on."

"The past was mostly about growing up and the dreams I had about falling in love. That's my past. The experiences I had pre-him."

"Him? Me?"

"Yes." She smiles. "My present is our story now. I've written about my heart on that blog. Finding you, loving you, discovering forever."

"You'll show it to me?"

"It was meant for only you." She reaches to the side table to grab her phone. "I was going to show it to you on our wedding night. I thought it was set to private, but I was wrong. A woman posted excerpts of it on her Pinterest account."

"Seriously?" His grin flashes.

"She linked back to my blog and traffic went through the roof. I've made it private since the publisher contacted me. They don't know it's me, by the way. I've never used my real name on the blog, or your name."

My eyes scan her phone's screen and the simple pink blog filled with words written from her heart. "They want to publish the content of this blog?"

"They do." She laughs. "When they sent me an email through the blog they said it was inspirational and a testament to a modern love story."

Our love story. "I'm going to read every word of this."

"For now, I want you to read the last post. I did that one earlier today."

I hand her the phone so that she can pull up the post. I start reading the moment she hands it back to me.

Him. He's the dream we all have at night when our heart is still empty. I wanted a forever love and always imagined when I found it that it would mirror what I saw in the kitchen of my parents' home when they were making Sunday dinners for the family. I thought I saw true love in my granddad's tears when he kissed my grandma's coffin before they lowered her into the ground.

Love with him is different.

It's grilled cheese sandwiches and piano sonnets.

It's broad shoulders, black hair, and an incredible mind.

It's trust, broken and then rebuilt.

It's tomorrow and a new life.

I'm going to ask him to marry me today. I don't have a ring. I have a heart. I gave it to him months ago and it's his forever.

P.S. I think he'll say yes.

"Yes," I whisper as I drop the phone on the bed between us. "Yes, Sophia. I will marry you."