Trust Me (Rough Love 3)

“I have some friends on staff.” I drew her back and kissed her hard on her beautiful lips. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“All I got you were some cuff links,” she protested.

“And that ring you’re going to make me, out of diamonds and gold, so I can give it back to you.”

She giggled as I kissed her again. “I’m not sure you know how this whole gift giving thing works.”

“Oh, I know how it works.” Mine also, little painted poem of God. The universe had brought me a gift, and she was in my arms, and she was worth any fucking price.

As for the mirror, sure, it was expensive to take one from the Gramercy, and have a new one installed in its place, but Chere loved my poetry, and this one might end up being the most important poem of all.

That is, after her.

Chapter Eighteen: Three Years Later

Price and I were in Vancouver, at a quiet park overlooking an inlet. In the distance, a spare, glittering bridge spanned the water and touched down lightly on the opposite shore. As the city constructed it, people used words like groundbreaking and game-changing to describe the minimalist design. A few people had called it plain, or ugly, but they were idiots.

My husband didn’t do plain or ugly. He made works of art.

“Wow,” I said, watching the sun glint off the slender posts and wires. “Wow. I have no words. It’s breathtaking, baby. How did you do that? I mean, the balance. The symmetry. The design.”

“I had a lot of inspiration.” He corralled me into a hug and a rough, quick kiss. “I only wish they would have let me name the damn thing.”

“The Chere Rouzier-Eriksen Bridge would have been a real tongue twister.”

“So’s the name of that politician they named it after.” He shrugged. “Whatever. It’ll always be the Chere Bridge to me.”

“I’m honored. Seriously, I think it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve made so far.”

“No, not quite. It doesn’t compare to this work of art.” He scooped up our daughter as she toddled past, and pressed his nose to hers. “Does it, sunshine? You’re the most beautiful thing in the universe. Well, the most beautiful two year old, anyway.” He threw a sideways wink in my direction.

“Nice save,” I said. “And I hate to point it out, but you didn’t actually make her.”

He put a hand over Aliya’s kinky ponytail curls. “Hush. She’ll hear you.”

I grinned at the striking contrast of his daughter’s dark coloring against his pale Nordic skin. “She’s going to figure it out one day, blondie. But for now I’ll play along, because yes, she’s absolutely beautiful.”

“Mama,” she cooed, reaching out for me with grassy, grubby fingers. But as soon as she was in my arms, she reached again for Price. “Daddy. Want Daddy.”

He took her, grubby fingers and all, and tossed her up in the air, to avid screeches of approval. Aliya had been adopted into our family almost a year ago. I’d been scared about passing on my parents’ mental health genes, and Price wasn’t jazzed about giving up my body for the length of a pregnancy, so we’d looked into adopting a child. Since both of us had gotten second chances, we decided we wanted to give an at-risk child a second chance too.

Our adopted daughter had had a rough start in life, like me, but she was also a fighter, like me. Add in Price’s protectiveness, and his mission to do better than his parents, and our little sunshine was definitely going to take over the world, along with the sibling we planned to adopt in a year or two. Our daughter also had Andrew and Craig for fairy godfathers. Andrew had painted her first portrait last month, and given it to us as an anniversary present. He’d captured all the warmth and light in her young face. We had so much love between us, and Aliya seemed to multiply it every day.

As for her effect on our dynamic, well, the dungeon was soundproof. I was so glad Price had been thinking ahead.

“Let mama wash your hands,” I said, digging in the diaper bag for wipes.

“No wash.”

“They’re dirty. Let mama wash Aya’s hands.”

“No wash A-ya’s hands,” she repeated, this time with an emphatic shake of her head. She was in that stage where everything was no, even when she meant yes. Price said she took after me in her stubbornness, but I thought she took after him. Actually, it was probably just a two-year-old thing.

“Let her dig a while longer,” he said, letting her down. “Maybe we have a future geologist on our hands.”

We sat on a nearby bench and let her scratch out a series of toddler-sized holes. When she got tired of that, she started pulling up grass, arranging it in random piles.

“She’s making excellent use of negative design space,” Price murmured.