Rare (31 page)

Ash nudged my arm. “What’s got you all broody?”

I smirked at his choice of words. It was a term that had been thrown around a lot since Cosmo’s birth. The magic of seeing Ash with a baby had brought the inevitable questions from those around us about what the future might hold for the two of us. My mom wanted us to get married, but that was never going to happen. It wasn’t something either of us believed in, and we didn’t need a piece of paper to validate what we had. Kids? Well, that was more complicated. Ash was terrified of passing on the addiction gene he’d inherited from his own mother, and me? I just didn’t want to. Cosmo was great, and Liam seemed like a cool kid, but jacking off in a sperm bank? Nah. It wasn’t me.

We made our way home and fell into bed. Ash was all over me, and that suited me fine. He fucked me until I forgot my own name, and I was asleep before he’d even rolled off me.

Later that day, I woke up alone. I rolled over in the big bed and fumbled with my cell phone to check the time. I was surprised to find it was early evening. That happened a lot these days. It was the one thing I couldn’t shake from the accident. Before, I was a light sleeper. Nowadays, I slept like an elderly cat, especially if I’d pulled a shift at the hospital.

With some effort, I hauled myself out of bed and into the bathroom. As I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth, I caught sight of the new ink on my hand. It was one word, etched on the outside edge of my palm.
Amato
—the Italian word for “loved.” Endearingly, Ash seemed to worry I’d forget.

I got cleaned up, pulled on some clothes, and followed the smell of cooking into the kitchen. I lingered in the doorway when I got there, appreciating the sight before me. My mom was at the stove with the baby on her hip, waving a spoon of something in front of her like the indulgent grandmother she’d always wanted to be. Joe and Charlie sat at the table playing cards. Joe was winning, but I could tell by the gleam in Charlie’s eye that he wouldn’t be for long. At the opposite end, Ash and Danni sat close together, their gold heads so close it was hard to tell who was who. Between them, I could see photographs and sketches, plans, no doubt, for their next project.

The scene was perfect, and I took a moment to enjoy it before Ash sensed my presence and looked up. Our eyes met, and as I stared at him, I tried to tell him everything I felt in that moment. He smiled and got to his feet, his work forgotten. The heat of the mug of coffee he pressed into my hands a moment later had nothing on the lips that grazed my cheek.

“There you are,” he said softly enough for only me to hear. “Come sit. I missed you.”

I let him pull me into the warm kitchen to take my place in what had become the central hub of our patchwork family. Sometimes, I thought I missed our quiet life in Lincoln Park, but on nights like these, when I saw the people I loved safe and content, I knew I didn’t. All of us had been to hell and back, and we’d come out of it with our own imperfect brand of perfection.

I kissed Maggie on the cheek and slid my arms around Ash from behind. I put my chin on his shoulder and nuzzled his neck. My life had taught me that moments like these were the rarest thing, and that each day could be your last. You couldn’t change the past or control your future, but you could make the most of your present. Family had many definitions. What mattered was what it meant to us, and with Ash at peace in my arms, it meant everything.

G
ARRETT
L
EIGH
lives in a small commuter town just north of London with her husband, two kids, a dog with half a brain, and a cat with a chip on her shoulder. She’s twenty-nine, and now she’s reached that milestone, she intends to stay there for the foreseeable future. Garrett has been writing just about her whole life, but it’s been about three years since she decided to take it seriously. According to Mr. Garrett, it was either give the men in her head a voice or have herself committed.

Angst. She can’t write a word without it. She’s tried, she really has, but her protagonists will always be tortured, crippled, broken, and deeply flawed. Throw in a tale of enduring true love, some stubbly facial hair, and a bunch of tattoos, and you’ve got yourself a Garrett special.

When not writing, Garrett can generally be found procrastinating on Twitter, cooking up a storm, or sitting on her behind doing as little as possible. That, and dreaming up new ways to torture her characters. Garrett believes in happy endings; she just likes to make her boys work for it.

Garrett also works as a freelance cover artist for various publishing houses and independent authors under the pseudonym G.D Leigh.

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