Swear (Landry Family 4)

She giggles. “First of all, this family doesn’t need a reason to celebrate. Give them a half-assed reason to get together and they’ll convene like seagulls to a picnic.”

“Noted.”

“But we’re really just celebrating . . . life. Lincoln and Dani and Ryan. You and Ford and the baby. Sienna since she says she’s heading back to LA. Mallory and Graham. Just all of the good things we have. We’re so blessed.”

“That we are.” I slip the token back in my pocket. “That we are.”

“So you guys can come? Tomorrow around seven?”

“As far as I know. I’ll run it by Ford, but I don’t see why not.”

“Yay!” She turns to go. “I’ll see you then, Ellie.”

“Bye, Alison.”

Ellie

“I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’m supposed to wear to this,” I say, coming out of our bedroom. The pale yellow dress was pretty on the hanger, but I’m having major second thoughts about wearing it tonight.

Ford looks up from the floor where he’s doing a set of push-ups . . . in a pair of khakis and a navy blue button-up shirt. He grins.

“Is that a yes? A no? A . . .”

He pumps out ten more in quick succession and springs to his feet. “That’s a yes.” He dips me, planting a hard, heavy kiss to my lips.

“You aren’t taking me seriously,” I laugh as he stands me straight again. “This is my first major Landry event.”

“It’s a dinner,” he says, looking at me cock-eyed. “Not so much a ‘major event.’”

“It feels like it,” I moan. “I’m on their turf tonight. That’s intimidating.”

Ford bursts out laughing. “Their turf?”

“You know what I mean,” I huff, going back to the bedroom. I find a pair of straw-colored heels that look cute with their embellished straps and put them on, figuring my days wearing heels are numbered. Thankfully.

“I love when you wear jeans and my t-shirts,” Ford says from his spot leaning against the doorframe, “but I like you in dresses and heels too.”

“I figured I should.”

“Since it’s a major Landry event and all,” he cracks.

Ignoring him, I look in the mirror once again. With my hair down and curled and a pair of earrings glittering from my ears, I look much better than I feel.

My stomach is still a constant state of misery from morning sickness, a term that’s an out-and-out lie. There’s nothing “morning” about it at all. It’s an around-the-clock ailment that I haven’t worked out.

“You ready?” he asks.

I take his hand and let him lead me down the hallway. Pictures of me and my parents now join the images of him from his childhood in the frames between the bedrooms. My grandmother’s vase joins the statue he picked up in Barcelona on a tour of duty. The house is now a mix of both of us. I love it.

Ford stops outside the first room at the top of the stairs. He looks at me and grins. His free hand turns the knob and we peer into the room we chose for the baby.

It sits mostly empty now, save for a few random things I’ve set inside. My old rocking horse that I found in my parents’ attic. A giant strawberry toy box we found in an antique store last weekend that reminds me of the one I had growing up and a box of old toys that Vivian had saved from Ford’s childhood.

“I was thinking,” Ford says, leading me into the room, “we could go next weekend and pick out some paint samples and see what we like.”

“But we won’t know if it’s a boy or a girl for a while yet.”

“We can pick a color and if it’s wrong, we’ll paint it over,” he grins.