Page 183 of King of Pain

Always beautiful.

“You didn’t answer me,” I say.

Ant raises a brow. “Pretty sure thatwasmy answer.”

He taps his chin, eyes gleaming. “But if you want something more official?”

I nod, dazed and hopeful.

Hegrins. “All I can say is… took you long enough to ask, baby.”

Thesmile that flashesacross my face is fast aslightning.

My heart beats likerolling thunder.

My eyes are threatening to rain.

He is my perfect storm.

TRACK FIFTY•EIGHT

Open Arms

Anthony

I wake up and immediately know I’m alone in the bed.

No Chance.

No Guinness.

The sheets next to me are cool, and for a second, I think it was all just a dream. But then I stretch and smile to myself—remembering that it’s real.

It’s Saturday. No work. Just the blissful freedom of time with Chance and Little G; and a trip to my apartment to grab a few things now that I’m…living here.

Again, I wonder if it’s all just a dream.

I roll onto my back and look around the bedroom. The high ceilings with the ornate crown molding. The warm, polished hardwood floors. The massive window overlooking downtown Phoenix, morning light pouring in like a spotlight. This condo really is incredible.

And I get to live here. With the two loves of my life.

Wondering where those two are, I climb out of bed and slide on a pair of gym shorts. Padding barefoot into the living room, I don’t see Chance or our four-legged child anywhere. Must’ve gone for a run. I rub the sleep from my eyes and make my way into the kitchen.

Cabinet. Mug. Pod. Button.

The hum of the machine kicks on as I lean back against the counter, arms crossed, waiting for my caffeine fix.

Then I notice the door to the spare room—the makeshift studio—is cracked open.

I grab the mug once the coffee finishes and shuffle around the island, headed toward the room. My feet stop short in the doorway, breath snagging in my lungs.

Oh. My. God.

Chance is standing in front of a canvas—wearing nothing but a pair of paper-thin shorts with no longer than a three-inch inseam. Shorts that are fighting for their life against the curve of his ass and the sheer size of his thighs. He’s got bright blue over-the-ear headphones on, and his body is moving with the music, hips swaying, muscles flexing with every shift of his brushstroke.

Little G is curled up on a blanket off to the side and gives me a look like,‘Take a picture. It will last longer.’

I lean against the doorframe and sip my coffee, watching.