Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 42202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
I’m theirs, and they’re mine.
In the morning, after enjoying a delicious breakfast casserole that Barrett and Lennox made, the men lead me into the living room, where a stack of gorgeously wrapped gifts is piled on a table by the window.
“Merry Christmas,” Barrett says. “These are for you.”
“What?” I lift my hand to show him the diamonds sparkling in the sunlight. I haven’t taken the ring off since I received it. “You already gave me this.”
“And now we’re giving you these,” Bronson says, passing a box to me and ushering me to sit in the nearest chair.
“But I didn’t get you anything. I feel terrible.”
“You’ve accepted our ring and agreed to be with us,” Barrett says. “Do you have any idea how happy you make us?”
“You make me happy too,” I say. “I don’t need gifts.”
“It makes us happy to buy nice things for you,” Lennox says, making it impossible for me to refuse them.
“We’ll compromise where we need to, Caz, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to us spoiling you,” Bronson says.
I frown at him, but my eyes are smiling as I slide my hand under an open edge of wrapping paper.
“Next year we’ll have a proper Christmas, with a big tree in our new home,” Barrett says.
“That sounds nice,” I say.
Lennox sits on the arm of my chair and smiles down at me. “It will be wonderful.”
After opening all of their gifts — jewelry, sweaters, shoes, a jacket, a sci-fi movie poster, and an e-reader complete with store credit so that I can load it with books — and after some time together in the bedroom, we shower and get ready to go to Rachel’s for Christmas dinner.
When we’re all dressed and I’m admiring how handsome they look in their holiday clothes, the men circle around me, pulling me into a group hug.
“It’s so good to be back,” Barrett says.
“To be home,” Lennox adds.
“To be able to see your mom on Christmas?” I ask.
“To be home,” Lincoln says.
Bronson leans in to kiss my forehead. “With you.”
One Year Later
“Thanks again for coming with me,” I tell Becca as we sit in the drive-through line at the new coffee shop on the island. After a long day of last-minute Christmas shopping, we’re treating ourselves to iced peppermint mochas.
I ordered most of my holiday gifts online, but there were a few items I wanted to select in person, along with stocking stuffers and some things we needed for our holiday dinner.
“It was fun,” Becca says. “Too bad Christine couldn’t come with us.”
“Couldn’t, or didn’t want to?” I say with a laugh.
“I know. I hardly ever see her anymore.”
“She really should leave her house more often,” I say as I ease off the brake to fill the open space ahead of us.
“Who can blame her for wanting to stay in, though?” Becca says, grinning.
Christine and I had been getting together regularly until she got busy with … other things.
“Ooh, those look good,” Becca says. The barista already has our drinks sitting on the ledge as I pull up. Tall festive cups with whipped cream, chocolate shavings, and peppermint sprinkles visible under the domed lids.
Becca tries to hand me a credit card, but I wave her away. “But you bought lunch,” she protests.
“It’s my pleasure.” It’s nice to no longer be living paycheck to paycheck, and to be able to treat my friends. And to have friends. I really should have opened myself up to other people a long time ago, but better late than never.
“I guess you’ve got the money rolling in from your book sales now,” Becca says with a teasing tone as I pass her drink to her. She knows that my career as an author got off to a slow start, but I hadn’t really told her yet how much things are improving. Next month’s royalty payment is actually going to be pretty decent.
“I’ll be the next Isaac Asimov any day now,” I say.
“Who?”
“Famous science fiction writer,” I explain. “Now I understand why you don’t read my books.”
“I read one,” she says. “It was good, but I prefer romance.”
“Some of my books have a little romance.”
“Okay, you’re going to make me say it, aren’t you? I like to read smut. Romance novels with a lot of smutty, smutty sex.” Becca gives me a sassy smile, and the drink I just took a sip of nearly sprays out of my mouth as I try not to laugh.
“I see,” I say, diplomatically when I’ve stopped giggling. Maybe I should consider adding some graphic sex to my books. I certainly have a lot of inspiration to draw from.
If it weren’t for my men, I’d never be writing. They kept encouraging me to give it a try, and they helped me afford online courses so that I could sharpen my skills and learn more about the industry. When I decided to self-publish, they paid for professionally-designed book covers and editing services. They’ve been my cheerleaders as I’ve watched reviews come in, and I’ve been proud to tell them that a group of loyal readers is forming. Each of my book releases has done a little better than the last.