Hold On (The 'Burg #6)(195)
“Babe, have you been anywhere outside my bed, my house, or my sight unless you’re at work for the last three days?”
“No.”
“You think I’m gonna let you make dude food in a kitchen where Ryker nearly bled out on the floor?”
Her lips started curving up. “No.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Why?” she asked back.
“Why wouldn’t I do that?”
It didn’t take long for the answer to come to her.
When it did, she melted into him.
“You take care of me,” she said softly.
“Yeah. And Ethan. So yeah. Ask for time off. We’ll pack up all Janis Joplin’s shit that lunatic didn’t smash and move it to my place. But first, tonight, we’re putting f*ckin’ pink ornaments on our first Christmas tree.”
She drifted her hand from his chest up to curl around his neck and rolled up on her toes.
She did this, staring into his eyes.
“Thanks for shooting a man in the face for me,” she whispered, her brown eyes dancing.
It hurt a f*ckuva lot, but seeing as they were in a hospital corridor, Garrett managed to force his roar of laughter down to just a chuckle.
“You’re welcome, Cherie.”
“I love you, Garrett Merrick,” she told him.
“I know you do and I love you too, but just to repeat during this gooey moment where you might think you can get in there, Ryan is not recuperating in our guest room.”
The warmth in her brown eyes turned partially flinty at the ongoing argument they were having about her friend who was recovering in a hospital in Indy.
He’d lost a lot of blood.
He’d taken shots to worse parts of his body.
And he’d been left longer.
He’d also been taken off the critical list that morning.
“His mother is a ball-breaker,” Cher told him.
“So are you.”
He had her there. It was written all over her.
It took her a few beats, but she finally found her comeback.
“She’s not the good kind.”
And she had him there.
He tried a different tack. “Babe, I don’t have a bed in either guest room.”
“You will if we use my old one.”
Fuck.
She had him again.
“Right. I don’t want a geek genius in our house, playing video games with Ethan, possibly teaching him geek-genius stuff, which would not be bad, but also teaching him Ryan-stupid shit, which would absolutely not be good.”
“Hmm…” she murmured.
It was a good call to pull the Ethan card. She wanted Ryan to teach her son to be stupid less than Garrett did.
So he dodged the bullet.
This, and looking forward to store-bought-but-home-baked Christmas cookies and pink ornaments, made him pull her even closer.
“It happens,” he replied.
“What happens?” she asked.
He dipped closer and held her tighter.
“It happens,” he repeated. “For people like us, baby. It happens, eventually. Just as long as we hold on.”
She liked that. She showed it with her pretty brown eyes. She showed it by pressing closer. She showed it by wrapping both arms around his neck.
Finally, she showed it by rolling up further and taking his mouth.
And he liked that.
So he showed her too.
While she was taking his, he took hers.
And with that—as they did and as they’d continue to do—together, Cher Rivers and Garrett Merrick successfully weathered yet another storm.
Epilogue
Such a Girl
Feb
May
I walked into the living room to see my son tossing treats to my cat, my husband with him, holding back our dog by his collar.
Seeing this and it annoying me, I planted my hands on my hips, asking, “Are you serious?”
My husband’s eyes came to me.
They grew dark as they dropped to my dress and his face assumed an expression I felt in my womb.
My son’s eyes also came to me.
Since we had somewhere to go, I decided to focus on Jack.
“What, Momma?” Jack asked.
“Baby boy, the vet said Wilson’s too fat,” I told him, resuming walking into the living room so I could get to my purse in the kitchen.
“Daddy says the only eggerzize Wilson gets is runnin’ ’round for kitty treats,” Jack replied.
I glared at Colt as I walked by him, and I did this mostly because he hadn’t lied to our kid—Wilson was lazy as hell—so I had no retort.
For his part, Colt grinned at me as I walked by him.
Years he’d had to become impervious to my glare.
That was annoying too.
I hit the kitchen, asking Colt, “How many have you given him?”
“Three,” Colt lied.
“Eelehben,” Jack told the truth.
I again glared at Colt, who had followed me into the kitchen.
“We need to get goin’,” he stated. “Not have our three thousandth argument about Wilson’s cat treats.”
Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.
“Scout taken care of?” I asked about our dog, who had likely gotten his treats earlier but forgotten that had happened, which was why he was now skulking into the kitchen, straight to his bowls.