This Time For Keeps. Jenna Mills
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from her stomach. She loved the warmth of his palm against her chemise, loved looking down to see his fingers splayed against her belly.
“Just wait,” she whispered.
His frown caught her by surprise. “Can’t,” he said. “I’ve got a breakfast meeting over at the Manor.”
She stepped back. “Everything okay?”
“Just somebody I used to work with.”
“From New York?”
“London,” he said, returning to pour the remaining yellow paint back into the can.
Questions surged like the floodwaters that had almost inundated their home the month before, but like a makeshift dam, Meg held them back. They’d been through this before. He’d made his choice, made a clean break, walked away. He didn’t miss his old life, didn’t want to go back.
Still, curiosity needled through her. As publisher and editor-in-chief of the Piney Woods Gazette, that was her job, after all. To ask questions.
It’s how they’d met.
“Anyone I know?”
“No.”
The vagueness of his answers was not lost on her. Clearly he didn’t want to talk about this old colleague—or what they would be discussing. But she knew. A photojournalist, Russ had been at the top of his field when he’d turned his back on it all—the acclaim, the travel. The freedom.
For her.
Someone was always trying to lure him back. “Well, give her my—”
“Meggie.” He was across the room in a heartbeat, leaning down to take her face in his hands. “Sean. His name is Sean. We—”
“Russ—”
“—did a few ride-alongs together in Iraq. He’s with the BBC—”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m here.” The ferocity in his voice made her heart slam. “With you, Meggie. It’s where I want to be.”
She swallowed hard. She knew that. She did. And if she ever had any doubt, she had only to look at the gallery of framed photographs lining the hallway. From their honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands to an afternoon picnic among the Texas bluebonnets, the moments were all there, captured. Preserved.
The surge of raw emotion was new to her. Hormones, she figured. Her girlfriends told her it was perfectly normal, but she’d cried more since becoming pregnant than she had in the past few years, combined.
Her cousin Julia promised this was just the beginning.
“I know,” she whispered.
Russ slid his hand back down to cup the newly formed bump. “And at eleven o’clock I’ll be with you at Dr. Brennan’s.”
Meg smiled. At the last sonogram, their little one had waved, then gone right back to sleep. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he said with a long, hard kiss. “I’ll be there.”
CHAPTER ONE
Two and a half years later
WHISPERS OF MORNING SUN leaked through the blinds, casting the small room in an ethereal glow. A cloth doll sat in the rocking chair. A soft pink towel lay on the changing table. And in the far corner, the crib stood in shadow. That was by design. Meg wasn’t sure what she’d been thinking, putting a baby in the room that was first to greet the morning. Actually she was pretty sure she hadn’t been thinking at all.
Pure emotion, much like pure adrenaline, had a way of sending logic straight out the window.
She slipped closer, careful not to step on the blocks or squeaky teething toys scattered across the rug. Just the slightest sound, and her morning routine would shatter before she even made it to the shower.
Little Charlotte slept. She lay sprawled on her back, her arms thrown over her head, her soft yellow blankie long since discarded. No matter how many times Meg crept in to cover the baby, Charlotte persevered. In those first few fragile weeks, Meg had even slept on the floor.
The swell of pure, unchained emotion still caught her by surprise. This was her favorite time of day, when it was still and quiet, before the craziness began. Little Char looked so peaceful. Her chubby cheeks were relaxed, her sweet little mouth slightly parted. And the baby-fine hair, as red now as the day she was born. She looked so like—
Meg blocked the thought, didn’t want the memory. She had a day to start and not a second to spare. Resisting the temptation to retrieve the blanket yet again, she slipped back into the hallway, all too aware of the light steadily encroaching upon the moss-green wall.
One of these days, she’d find time to paint.
In the bathroom, the blast of warm water from the shower felt good. She lingered, indulged in a new lavender body wash her cousin had insisted she try. By the time she turned the water off, she was a good ten minutes behind schedule—and Charlotte was crying.
Grabbing a towel, Meg dried off as she ran from the bathroom down the hardwood of the hallway. Charlotte’s screams grew louder, coming in virtual stereo between the now brightly lit nursery and the baby monitor. By the time Meg raced into the room, Charlotte had her chubby little hands wrapped around the crib rail and was working hard to hike her leg over the edge.
“Oh, sweetie,” Meg muttered, securing the towel around her as she hurried across the room. The vivid green of Charlotte’s eyes swam with frustration—tears made her face splotchy.
“Mama-mama-mama.” She sniffed between wails, lifting her little arms toward Meg.
“I’m here,” she cooed, and somewhere deep inside, an echo stirred. “I’m here, baby.” With you. Swooping her from the crib, Meg drew Charlotte close. “I’ve got you now.”
And I’m never going away.
Charlotte burrowed closer, sweet fists closing tight around the flesh of Meg’s arms. “Mama-mama…” With the babbling, she nuzzled toward Meg’s chest. “Babababa…”
Meg’s throat tightened. “Bottle,” she murmured, grabbing at the towel that kept sliding toward her waist. “You’ve been such a good girl,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “Staying in your bed all night.”
About half the time, she ended up cuddled next to Meg.
“You must be hungry,” she continued in a soft, singsong voice. “Let’s get you some formula.”
Charlotte pulled back and gazed at Meg with a longing that threatened to break her heart all over again.
It wasn’t so long ago that Meg had been quite sure there was nothing left to break.
“I know, sweet girl,” she whispered. “I know. I miss her, too.” Closing her eyes, she let the memories form, the tears and laughter, the smiles…the promises.
There’d been a lot of those.
“Let’s get you that bottle,” she said, easing Charlotte to the floor. Sweeping had become part of her nightly routine. “Here are your pots,” she added, scooting the nesting toy closer. “We’ll cook together.”
The eleven-month-old plopped down in front of the dishwasher, her tight little pajamas reminding Meg of a pink floral baby sausage. In fire-resistant fabric—the considerations of parenthood were a whole new world.
But it was a world she’d desperately wanted.
As the baby banged the plastic pots together, Meg turned on the water and got the coffee going, measured out formula and poured Cheerios for both of them.
She was opening the fridge when her cell phone rang. Twisting back toward the table, she grabbed the phone and flipped it open. “I’m