“I love your son, Mrs. Sullivan. It’d be easier for him if you liked me, but it doesn’t truly matter if you do. I’m not going anywhere.” I look across the grass at Tommy, then back to her again—and now I’ve got her attention. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure he feels like I’m the best thing that ever happened to him.”
She doesn’t say anything for a bit—she simply stares back with an unreadable face.
Then she turns her gaze to the game—to Tommy—and sighs slowly, before nodding.
“All right, then. I’m heading to the kitchen to get supper served. Tommy says you’re talented with a knife. Would you like to carve the roast, Abby?”
And it’s like I’m glowing from the inside—alight with a wonderful contentment that spreads down my limbs to the tips of my fingers and toes.
Because this is a peace offering. A start.
“I’d be happy to help, Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Good.” She picks up a wayward plate from the table behind her, before turning back. “And you can call me Maggie. Or Mum if you’d like . . . everyone in the family does.”
With that, she walks off ahead of me. And I just sort of stand there—stunned.
I feel Tommy’s eyes on me, because he always knows where I am. When I look at him, he lifts his chin towards his mother—silently asking if I’m all right.
I give him my biggest, brightest smile.
Then he’s smiling back, sending me a sexy wink just because he can.
And life isn’t just perfect . . . it’s extraordinary.
EPILOGUE
Tommy
7 years later
PERSONAL SECURITY HAS BECOME NOT just a necessity for the wealthy and privileged, but a status symbol of sorts. Like a private jet or an overpriced ugly handbag—anyone who thinks they’re someone wants to have it.
Which means for S&S Securities, business has been booming. We have our regular, serious clients who truly need guarding and a fancier set who just enjoy knowing a trained professional has their back.
But we don’t fuck around—we protect them all the same.
The firm expanded so much, Lo and I took on another partner—James Winchester. The three of us always did work well together, and it’s been smooth sailing ever since James hopped on board.
I’ve hung up my guarding boots and only rarely take a shift with a client—sticking to training and supervising day to day. Because I’ve come to appreciate Abby’s penchant for a consistent schedule and reliable routine.
Especially once our son was born.
We named him Oliver and he’s almost three years old now. He’s got my hair and Abby’s eyes—he’s a holy terror and a blessing in one—exactly the kind of lad my mum says she always wished on me.
Ollie’s favorite pastime is roughhousing with his uncles and Logan’s boys. He’s tough and quick-witted and gives back as good as he gets. When his uncle Luke comes to town he teaches him chess, a game Oliver’s picked up with fascinating ease. He also takes piano lessons—at the Dowager Countess of Bumblebridge’s insistence—because she swears he’s a regular Haddock prodigy.
But to me and Abby, he’ll always simply be the most perfect thing we’ve ever done.
I take him to the shop with me every day I can. But six p.m. is closing time.
“Get your shoes on, Ollie—time to go,” I call to where he’s wrestling around in the rink with Lo’s brood.
Lo and Ellie took a break from popping out kids like there’s going to be a shortage after number four.
Their third, Izzy, wags a finger at Oliver when he doesn’t get up fast enough.
“Are you deaf, Ollie? Your dad said it’s time to go. Move it.”
At six years old, Izzy is a fucking hilarious combination of Ellie’s tiny stature and Logan’s personality. She’s the only girl in the bunch and she runs the rest of them ragged.
My boy rolls his round eyes to the ceiling—but then he gets his shoes on and scurries over to me. I lift him onto my shoulders and carry him there as we head to the hospital to pick up his mum. He pelts me with adorable questions the whole way.
Why are the walls of the Tube station blue?
Why does the hospital have so many windows?
When will I be big like you?
And why and when and how and why again. He keeps me on my toes, and there’s not a single thing about it that isn’t amazing.
We come out of the lift on the surgical floor and Abby’s there at the nurse’s desk, her delicate brows drawn together and her pouty lower lip trapped between her teeth in concentration over a chart. She’s wearing dark green scrubs that she still manages to make gorgeous, and her hair is up in a copper bun, with a few wispy tendrils escaping to frame her lovely face.