Page 29

I can't believe you're mine.
I can't believe you really want to marry me.
I can't believe this is really true.
He pulls me into his arms, his lipsbrushing the top of my head, and the tenderness of it nearly kills me.
I love you, Ronan.
It's the truth.
But the words remain stuck in my throat.
LIFE IS ALMOST PERFECTthese days.
Almost.
In the weeks that follow the shower, I settle into a routine that feels like a dream I never dared to have. Each morning, I wake to Ronan's arms around me, his hands gentle as they trace the curve of my belly. He whispers to our daughter before he leaves for work, tells her to be good to her mama. Some days I help at the bookstore, carefully cataloging new arrivals while Thornton watches me with his hawk-like eyes to ensure I don't overexert myself. Other days I nest, preparing our home for the baby's arrival, arranging and rearranging the nursery until it feels just right.
Andalmostperfect.
Except for those three words I can't seem to say.
I love you, Ronan. I love you. So, so much.
The words have turned into a burden, but I still can't make myself say it.
All I can do is think of them endlessly...
And tonight is no exception, even when Ronan has brought me as a date to some doctors'-only event in his friend's hospital in Laramie.
"I still think you're showing too much skin," my fiancé grumbles as I hand over my coat and receive a number in return.
"All you can see are my shoulders," I protest.
"Exactly."
Can this man be any more adorable and sillier?
Heads turn as we enter, and the way Ronan commands attention wherever we go is still a thing I'm getting used to. He's always been gorgeous to look at, but Ronan in a tux? In one word: devastating...and it has me turned on so, so bad that I'm already wet under my gown, and I'm just really hoping Ronan won't find out.
Throughout the evening, Ronan is never far from my side. He fetches me drinks (non-alcoholic, of course), makes sure I'm sitting when my feet ache, and glares at anyone who comes too close with a champagne flute that might accidentally spill on my dress.
"You're hovering," I whisper during a lull in the conversation.
"I'm protecting," he whispers back, pressing a kiss to my temple.
When Ronan excuses himself to speak with a former professor, I find myself momentarily alone by the dessert table, my mouth watering at the array of delicate confections. The mini macarons are particularly tempting, their rounded tops adorned with edible pearls in pastel colors that match the decor of our nursery back home.
I'm just reaching for one when I sense someone beside me.
"The raspberry one's better."
I look up to find a young man—boy, really—beside me, his tuxedo slightly too large for his lanky frame. He can't be more than eighteen, with a mop of dark curls and a smile that's all boyish charm.
"Thank you. I shall take your word for it then." I pop the raspberry-flavored macaron into my mouth, and oh my gosh.
My eyes close.