Page 2 of Make You Mine
Amerie
Three years later…
Three days in, the only thing that feels settled is the Wi-Fi router. I fold up the latest box I’ve finished unpacking and then drop it with the pile of other broken-down boxes. Slowly, but surely, we’ve been making our way through the roomful.
When we started, we could barely see the opposite wall. Now, box by box, details like the bay window and the built-in bookshelves are coming into view.
“Careful!” I cry out when Willow bounces her jelly ball at my side. “We’ve got the vases, Willow! One wrong move and you could knock them to the floor.”
“Sorry, Mommy. I’m trying to beat my bounce record!” squeaks my five-year-old brightly. She never takes her eyes off the ball, her small hand swatting at it again.
“What have we talked about? The ball is an outside toy. Go on. Before you break a window.”
She heaves a little sigh before she takes the jelly ball, spins on her heel, and marches out of the room, her braids swinging at her shoulders.
As she walks out of the living room, Declan’s walking in . He watches our little one pass him by, then looks up at me with both brows raised, his emerald-green eyes flickering with curiosity.
I give a shrug, then turn to the next box to unpack. “Don’t ask.”
“It might be time to find her a playmate.”
“Where? We’re not exactly surrounded by neighbors.”
My husband concedes with a nod, joining me at my side. He dwarfs me in size, making my height of five-seven seem insignificant.
Declan stands at six-four, a tall and thick Irishman with dark auburn hair and a fair complexion that burns easily in the sun. I always tease him about it, telling him I have enough melanin for the both of us.
The very first day we met had been a hot summer day. He’d been burning red from the sun, but he’d still thought it was worth shooting his shot anyway. He approached me and my best friend Cinthia at a beachside bar and struck up a conversation.
I wasn’t one to be into randoms at bars—especially sunburned ones—but his accent was sexy and he was cute.
The last thing I imagined was, seven years later, we’d be married with two kids and moving to England…
“We have neighbors, love,” he says in his usual affectionate tone. “They’re just not on top of us like the loft you used to live in.”
“I loved that loft!”
He chuckles. “It was fine. For a fun, sexy, single gal.”
“Oh?” I ask, quirking a brow and half turning to him. “But I’m not that anymore?”
“Well, no,” he answers. His arms slide over my hips and he yanks me toward him so fast that I yelp at how aggressive it is. He leans closer, a sudden growly affect to his voice. “You’re still fun and you’re still sexy. But you’re not single anymore. Have you forgotten you belong to me now?”
Declan buries his face in my throat, peppering the column with ravenous kisses. I erupt in laughter, ever ticklish and sensitive in the area.
“D-Declan!” I cry out breathlessly to no avail. “D-Declan!”
But I go ignored.
My husband showers kisses all over, holding me tight against him ’til he’s soon capturing my lips and we’re locked into a heated full-mouth kiss.
Unpacking all these boxes slips out of my mind. So do the dozen other chores we’ve got to get done.
We just moved to Rosethorne, a charming little village an hour outside of London, and we’ll need to resume our lives soon.
This is my and the kid’s first time living overseas.
But Halberd, Declan’s international private equity, firm decided it was expanding operations and needed someone to head up the new UK division. He was now going to be the Managing Director, which was a huge promotion we couldn’t sensibly turn down.
Besides, we needed to get away from all the darkness in the States.
Start fresh somewhere new and fix the broken things in our lives.
This move isn’t only about his new career opportunity—it’s about mine too.
It’s been over four years since I last published a book. For an author who once poured every ounce of her creative mind onto the page, it’s been torture not being able to write. It’s felt like losing a part of myself that refuses to come back.
But between health and fertility issues, marriage troubles, family deaths, and many other obstacles life has thrown our way, the words have been hard to come by…
That’s why I’m hoping maybe a home in the quiet, secluded English countryside will actually turn out to work in my favor. Maybe , I’ll finally get some writing done.
Declan’s showing no signs of letting me go as he kisses me deeply. I’m leaning up into him, cupping my fingers along his bearded jaw. He grunts his approval and glides his hands over the curves of my body.
Emmett’s wails erupt from the baby monitor and interrupt us before things can get any steamier. We break apart at once. I rush toward the door to go check on our newborn son. He’s where I left him, upstairs in the nursery, lying in his crib.
“Someone’s up from their nap,” I coo softly. I reach into the crib, cradling him in my arms. He’s so adorably chunky, with his fuzzy curls and big, curious eyes. “Are you hungry?”
Declan stops at the doorway as I carry Emmett to the nursing chair by the window and sit down. He always develops a glint in his gaze when he watches the two of us together in moments like this; his green eyes reminiscent of emerald stones.
“You know,” he says, hands deep in his pockets, “you’ll never get any writing done once I go back to work. You’ll be fussing over the kids all day.”
“Willow will be in school half the day.”
“And Emmett? And the rest of the house?” he says, cocking a brow. “You know what you’re like. You’ll let it swallow the whole day.”
As Emmett’s little puckered lips latch onto my breast, I know Declan is right—I’ll never get any writing done if I lose myself in the kids and housework again. The deadline with my publisher is looming, and with his new promotion, he’ll be gone, ten, twelve hours a day.
“What are you suggesting?” I ask.
“Some help. We can afford it.”
“Seems extra,” I laugh. “I can handle it.”
Declan abandons the doorway, crossing the room in a couple easy strides. He reaches us by the window, bending close to drop a kiss on my brow. “Just promise me one thing. Think about it, love.”