Page 172 of Handsome Devil

“No, Dyl.” I offered her a rueful smile. “We’re moving to England. Permanently. I asked Tate before I got discharged.”

“But…why?” Dylan grumbled. “Cal’ll have you because she splits her time between NYC and London, but what aboutme?”

“I’ll come visit often, and of course, you’re always welcome to stay over with your family as much as you’d like!” I assured her. Although if I were completely honest, I wasn’t entirely sure my husband was a fan of guests. Or small children. Or…humans in general. “We decided to start over somewhere new, with a slower pace of life. We’re moving to the country. Kent, more specifically.”

Moving back home was important to me. I wanted to start somewhere fresh, putting our pasts, our anguish, and our animosity behind us. New York was drenched in trauma. The city reminded me of hectic mornings picking up strewn thongs from Tate’s desk and clearing his schedule on a whim becausehe decided to go ruin someone’s small business. Not to mention now, New York reminded me of my mother’s death. Of the Callaghans and the Ferrantes and the most frightening time in my life.

I’d been a caregiver my entire life. An assistant. A daughter. A fake wife. A real wife. It was time I started doing things for myself, even if it meant others needed to adjust their lives around me. It was a process, and one I was working with alongside a virtual therapist I started to see weekly.

I needed this.Weneeded this to heal.

“And Tate is going along with it?” Cal’s eyebrows flew to her forehead, her jaw going slack. “To living in Kent?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Row said he oftentimes looks down at anywhere in America that isn’t New York City and compares living in the suburbs to having a voluntary lobotomy.”

I cringed. My husband really was an acquired taste, wasn’t he? “Tate is very fond of New York, but he’s willing to compromise.”

But he wasn’t compromising. He was going right along with everything I wanted. And perhaps it was selfish of me, but I needed at least a year to recuperate from the first few weeks of our marriage. Who knew? Maybe after I put time and space between myself and everything that had happened, I’d want to come back to New York.

All I knew was that I’d spent my entire adult life doing whatever Tate Blackthorn wanted me to do. It was time I made decisions for myself too.

“It’s the end of an era.” The corners of Dylan’s mouth pulled down in sadness. “You were there when I needed you the most. When Grav got kidnapped by Tucker. When Rhyland and I started out and I needed someone to help me make sense of everything.”

“I’ll still be there,” I assured her. “I willalwaysbe there for you. Through thick and thin. Promise.”

So this was my story then. Imperfect, messy, and filled with way too much bloodshed for my liking. But this happy ending was completely mine. And at the end of it, I found something beautiful.

I found a family that loved me by choice, not by blood.

A man who would pluck all the stars from the sky just to make my life brighter.

A partner who chose me every day, even through hardship.

And that wasn’t just enough.

It waseverything.

Six months later

“Another mocktail?” My husband dragged a pink beverage in a fancy cup across the table, embellished with a pretty straw and a slice of pineapple. He took a slow sip of his brandy, squinting at the sun as it dipped into the ocean. We’d escaped to a Jamaican white-sand beach where we sat at a restaurant overlooking the sea.

Summer heat licked at my skin, the briny, fresh air caressed my face, and I was content and full of delicious dishes and desserts.

“Oh, sod off.” I pushed the mocktail back to him.

Tate smirked wryly. “I think sodding me was what got you into this predicament in the first place.”

Another wave of nausea washed over me, this time a milder one. The mornings were the worst. Which was why Tate had decided to distract me by taking me on a seven-month babymoon around the world, checking off every place I’d wanted to visit before we welcomed the new addition to our family.

The house in Kent was supposed to be ready shortly before the baby arrived. We were gutting it and starting over from scratch since Tate didn’t see the same quaint, nostalgic magic I did in the thirty-year-old kitchen and dated wallpaper.

“I’m still incredibly happy to be pregnant,” I clarified. “I just don’t like mocktails. They’re basically kiddie juice with garnishes.”

Tate nodded, taking another sip of his brandy.

“And ifIdon’t get to drink during this pregnancy, neither does the man who impregnated me.”