“And then shake cocoa powder over the top.”
She hums beneath her breath as she cups my face in her hands. “That is an amazing idea, Mr. Beverly. Do you have any idea how fucking sexy you are right now?”
I growl and play up the dirty talk. “Yeah? Do you like that, you naughty girl? A little PB and popcorn with your spanking?”
She grins. “Spanking first, then snacks. I’m not an animal, Mr. Beverly.”
“Oh, I would beg to differ, Miss Billings,” I say, and then I kiss her, soft and sweet so she knows that I adore both her feral side and her tender side, and that I can’t wait to get to know every part of her better. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me, too,” she says. “And I’m not going to run again, I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say.
“And just hold me in general?” she asks, the vulnerability in her voice making my throat tight. “Because I really like that part.”
I hug her closer and promise, “Always.”
And then I take her inside and show her just how devoted I am to keeping my promises, and to keeping my Lucy close.
9
Lawrence
Eight months later…
* * *
It’s hot as balls, so hot that Hamish, my best man, is walking around without a shirt, showing off the new Santa tattoo on his shoulder to the reception guests.
After his news interview, he became something of a local celebrity and has been surfing in a Santa hat all summer. And like any surf bum worth his salt, he’s not about to keep a shirt on for one second longer than necessary. As soon as the outdoor ceremony was over and the wedding party adjourned to the tent set up by the pond on my property, Hamish stripped to his undershirt.
Now, three beers and a pot brownie in, he’s wearing nothing but a pair of board shorts he apparently had on beneath his suit trousers.
But I’m so happy that neither the miserable weather nor a hairy back on display can dampen my spirits.
Lucy is my wife, and all is right with the world.
All is perfect, aside from the teary goodbyes…
But those are good, too. It means Lucy and I were loved here, and that we’ll have good friends waiting for us when we return.
“I just can’t believe you’re really leaving.” Emma Haverford swipes at her tear-streaked cheeks before pulling Lucy in for a hug. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
“I’ll miss you, too.” Lucy squeezes her friend tight. “But we’ll be back to visit all the time. You’ll hardly notice we’re gone, I promise.”
Emma pulls away with pouted lips and casts a dubious look my way.
I give her arm a reassuring squeeze. “She’s right. We’ll be back to visit every January as soon as we’ve wrapped up the season on our side of the pond.”
Eight months ago, I would never have imagined that this was how I’d be closing out the summer, with Lucy’s land and home sold, mine in escrow, and a new joint venture—Billings and Beverly Christmas Tree Farm—bought and paid for and waiting for us in a village forty miles outside of London.
But back then, I’d been a single man living abroad on an extended work visa, hoping to acquire a green card at some point in the future. Now I’m newly married, with a beautiful wife and a little one on the way.
Lucy’s only two months along, but we both agreed that we want the baby to be born in England. I have family there, and we won’t have to worry about outrageous American healthcare premiums. And though Mercyville has come to feel like home in the past year, I miss London.
They just don’t get enough cold, persistent drizzle in Northern California.
“Well, you can stay with me anytime. I’d love to host you,” Emma says, frowning as Dylan pauses to stick his head into the conversation and insists, “No, they’re staying with me. They’re farmers. We stick together.”
“I’m a farmer, too,” Emma says, lifting her nose higher in the air.
Dylan snorts, baiting her, as usual. “Right, Blondie, and I’m Abraham Lincoln riding a T-Rex.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Emma snaps, following him as he makes a break for the old bathtub filled with ice and beer that was the Hunter brothers’ contribution to the wedding reception.
“So now that Emma’s single, how long do you think until those two are banging like bunnies?” Lucy whispers as Emma gives Dylan a piece of her mind while pouring herself another glass of Chardonnay.
“Two weeks,” I whisper back and put my arm around Lucy’s waist, pulling her against me. “Maybe three if he’s really unlucky. They’re perfect for each other.”
“Exactly,” Lucy agrees. “He’s grouchy and adorable, and she’s sweet and adorable. They’re like peanut butter and chocolate.”
“Or peanut butter and popcorn,” I tease, making Lucy wrinkle her nose.