The Last Single Maverick. Christine Rimmer
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could be, yeah. But he’s also… the best, you know?”
“How?”
“He’d take a bullet for me. For anyone in the family. That’s how he is. You can count on him. Even in the old days, when you never knew what stunt he was going to pull next, you always knew he had your back.”
“So you’re saying he’s settled down, then—from the days when he made you kiss that toad?”
Jace nodded. “He was the bad boy of the family. He drank too much and he chased women and he swore that no female was ever going to hogtie him. But then he met Laila. She changed his tune right quick. Now he’s got a ring on his finger and contentment in his heart. I’ve never seen him as happy as he is now.” He studied her face. His gaze was warm. She thought how she was kind of glad he’d insisted they come here before he took her back up the mountain, how being with him really did lift her spirits. “Your turn,” he said. “Cough up that secret.”
“I always wanted to get married,” she heard herself say. “Ever since I was little. I wanted… a real family. I wanted the family I never had. A man I could love and trust. Several kids. Growing up, it was always so quiet at home, with just my mom and me. My mom likes things tidy. I learned early to clean up after myself. So our small house was neat and orderly, with a hushed kind of feeling about it. I dreamed of one of those big, old Craftsman-style houses, with the pillars in front and the wide, deep front porch—you know the kind?”
“I do.”
“I dreamed of bikes on their sides on the front lawn, of toys all over the living room floor, of spilled milk and crayon drawings scrawled in bright colors on the walls, because the children who lived there were rambunctious and adventurous and couldn’t resist a whole wall to color on. I dreamed of a bunch of laughing, crying, screaming, chattering kids, everybody talking over everybody else, of music on the stereo and the TV on too loud. And I saw myself in the middle of all of it, loving every minute of it. Me, the Mom. And I saw my husband coming in the door and stepping over the scattered toys to take me in his arms after a hard day’s work. I pictured him kissing me, a real, hot, toe-curling kiss, the kind that would make our older kids groan and tell us to get a room.”
“Wow,” he said. “That’s a lot better secret than kissing a toad.”
A leaf drifted down into her lap. She brushed it away and confessed, “I always felt guilty about my dream for my life, you know? My mom did the best she could. But all I wanted was to grow up and get out of there, to find my steady, patient, good-natured guy and start having a whole bunch of rowdy kids.”
“Joss.” He touched her hair again, so lightly, guiding a hank of it back over her shoulder. “I’m beginning to think there is altogether too much guilt going on in your head.”
“Yeah, probably. But my mom tried so hard, she worked so hard, to do right by me, to make a good life for me.”
“Just because you dreamed of a different way to be a mom doesn’t make your mom’s way bad.”
She gave a low chuckle. “You amaze me, you know that?”
“In a good way, I hope.”
“In a great way. When I met you I thought you were just another hot guy trying to get laid. But instead, you’re a shrink and a philosopher, with a little Mahatma Gandhi thrown in for good measure.”
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