Chasing Serenity (River Rain 1)

Corey remained in a Z shape, back up, knees up, cocooning her and holding her close, checking her skin for that first hint of pink that would declare the sunscreen her grandmother slathered on her before they came out wasn’t doing its job.

And then he felt her little baby sigh as she settled in to knowing it was the sun and the sea and the breeze and her Uncle Corey, she was safe, and all was right in the world.

As he knew it would happen if she was tossed in his lap, with that sigh, Corey’s worst fears came true.

He had known love and some of it was harmful, some of it he’d used to cause harm, some of it he’d thrown away before he realized how precious it was, some of it he’d thrown away even knowing that.

This was something else.

The realization of his love for this small being.

And as Marilyn frolicked in the surf, Corey Szabo bent his head so his lips were to a white baby sun hat on a little baby girl who, based on sheer instinct, loved her Uncle Corey, trusted him, and in his arms, she fell asleep.

And there, his voice raw with feeling, he whispered his vow.

“You will want for nothing. No one will harm you. You will find great love. I will see to it, my beautiful Chloe. I will see to all of that. You will be happy. And you will be safe. I will see to that too. When there is breath in my body, but even when I’m no longer here, I’ll look after you. I’ll do it forever, Chloe. Forever and ever. Don’t you worry about a thing. Your Uncle Corey’s got you.”

Chloe Marilyn Pierce slept against her uncle’s chest, not a care in the world.

And Corey sat in the sand and waited for Marilyn to come in. When she did, with great care he took his feet. He then stood and waited for Marilyn to towel off and put on her coverup.

And with one of his hands in the hand of the only woman in his life who would ever love him purely and completely, and his arm wrapped around the only girl in his life who would love him for who he truly was, Corey walked his girls up to Genny and Tom’s house.

Experiencing the only moment he would have in his life when he felt completely at ease.

Completely content.

And wholly loved.

Epilogue

The Picture

Judge

Nine weeks after the funeral…a Tuesday…

Alex’s head popped in the door to his office just as his phone rang.

He glanced at the cell first, seeing it was Chloe calling.

That was weird, because his woman texted, it was rare she called.

He turned his attention to Alex to tell her to hang on a second, but he saw she was practically coming out of her skin with excitement.

That was not Alex. She had reactions. She had emotions. She showed them. But it was never too overt.

“Judge—” she started.

For him, the decision was a no brainer.

“Two seconds,” he told her. “Chloe is calling.”

She was almost hopping foot to foot.

But she nodded and moved away from the door.

He picked up the call.

“Hey, baby, everything okay?”

“Okay, well, I did something,” she announced.

Shit, fuck.

With Chloe, that could mean anything.

From her presenting him with three suits and accompanying shirts (and fucking ties, not to mention shoes) that he’d find out later she’d spent twelve thousand dollars on (and that was just the suits) because, “You are an Oakley and you’re hanging with the Pierce-Swans and it’s not like you don’t already have several pairs of trousers and sports jackets. And if I can’t spend my trust fund on you, who am I going to spend it on? And youhavetheperfectbody so pleaseletmedressyou.”

It was that last bit that he gave in on.

Though, it had to be said, he’d eventually give in anyway, it was just that he would have given her far more shit about it first.

And then there was Judge coming home on a Thursday evening and finding his deck having two low planters filled with flowers in the outer corners and two potted evergreens by the backdoor with two more flower-filled planters flanking his front door. Plants he had to water because he was there more than she was.

This because, “You have three highly attractive women that live in your development. They check you out when you’re on your deck, and nothing says, ‘A woman lives here!’ like planters filled with flowers. And I know, a woman doesn’t live here. But these flowers stand in my stead to tell those women to back off when I’m not around.”

He’d explained that if the unlikely happened, and one of those women made their move, he could tell them he was taken.

To which she’d replied, “Let’s let the planters do your talking for you, shall we?”