“I know it now, too.”

“So this is your choice? To marry me?” In spite of her big words, he saw the doubt in her eyes as she asked the question.

“It is.” His words came right on out. No hold up at all.

“Okay, then.”

“Okay.”

He sat there, arms itching to take what was his and get on with it. Take her home with him. To his bed. Their bed.

And spend the rest of his life showing her just how open his heart could be.

Except that he wasn’t sure he knew how.

“I’ve got a lot to learn.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

And that’s when he truly got it. He wasn’t all that different from everyone else. He had his challenges, but so did she. So did everyone.

The trick was to face them.

And to share them when you were lucky enough to have someone who was willing to sit in the fire with you.

Ella guided his palm to her stomach. And he knew what she was asking.

“I’m not panicked, El,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for it to happen, but it hasn’t.”

“No nightmares?”

“No dreams, either.” He had to be honest. “But no, no nightmares.”

“You had a dream, Brett. A big one. And it came true. You’re sitting in the midst of it. The Lemonade Stand.”

She had no idea how true those words were. His dream, his biggest one, was to have a loving family of his own. And right there, that night, she’d made it come true.

He rubbed the mound of her belly, wondering if fate had created their child that night on the boat. Knowing that with a child ending their marriage, it would take a child to bring them together again.

“We really should find out if we’re having a boy or a girl,” he told her. “It’s time she had a name.”

“I did find out,” she told him. “On my last visit.”

And she hadn’t told him. Most likely because she’d thought he didn’t care. “So?” he asked.

“You’re right,” Ella said. “It was time she had a name. So I gave her one. It’s Livia.”

He choked up again. But didn’t lose it a second time. He was too busy kissing the mother of his child. And drowning in the love gushing from a heart that had burst free.

* * *

THERE WAS A text waiting for Brett the next morning.

I’m proud of you, was all it said.

And, for now, it was enough.

* * * * *

Look for the next

WHERE SECRETS ARE SAFE book

by Tara Taylor Quinn!

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CHAPTER ONE

CLINTON BARTASAVICH JR. tipped his Stetson in thanks to the toothy brunette who’d escorted him from the front desk of King’s Crossing Resort—Shady Grove, Pennsylvania’s equivalent of a four-star hotel. They stopped outside closed wooden double doors, the placard to the right stating Bartasavich/Ellison Party. “I appreciate the help...” He glanced at the small nametag on her chest. “Allison.”

He probably could have figured out how to get to this room—a distance of about a hundred feet straight down the main hallway—on his own. But when a pretty woman offered to lead the way, he didn’t argue.

Allison let out a high-pitched giggle that was grating enough to make a man’s ears bleed. “Oh, you’re very welcome, Mr. Bartasavich.”

He bit back a grimace. He hated having his name butchered. “Actually, it’s Bart-uh-sav-itch.”

Not Bart-as-a-vitch.

With a soft gasp, complete with a hand to her heart, she blinked at him so rapidly, he half expected her to start hovering above the ground. “How silly of me.” Sending him a look from under her eyelashes, she edged closer, her voice turning husky. “Maybe there’s...some way I could make it up to you?”

He’d eat his hat if she meant extra mints on his pillow.

“No harm done. It’s an honest mistake.”

One not made in Houston where the Bartasavich name was well-known. Even revered in certain circles.

Her lower lip jutted out in a pout no one over the age of six should attempt. “Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you,” she said in a whispery tone, “—and I do mean an...ee...thing—you just let me know.”

He cocked an eyebrow. Seemed Houston wasn’t the only place where his family’s name, power and wealth were known.

While he didn’t have any objections to casual sex—the more casual the better—he didn’t play games. No subtle hints about what either of them wanted. No coy looks or innuendos trying to convey what could be easily said with a few simple words.

And definitely no simpering.

But even if she’d held his gaze and told him in no uncertain terms that she was interested in him, attracted to him and ready, willing and eager to prove how much, he’d decline.

Having women throw themselves at him because of his name had long ago lost its thrill. He was his father’s son. Not his clone. And while Senior had always been more than happy to take whatever was offered to him, C.J. preferred knowing, for certain, that a woman was in his bed because of him.

Not his money.

“I’ll keep your offer in mind,” he said. Then he pulled off his hat and used his free hand to open the door.

And stepped into his own private version of hell. A very crowded, very loud, very pink hell.

It was as if Valentine’s Day had exploded, leaving hearts everywhere. On the walls. Dangling from the ceiling. Scattered on the tabletops. There were big ones, small ones. Flat ones, poufy ones. Some with scalloped edges, some with straight. But all were shiny or sparkly and in shades ranging from the palest pink to the brightest fuchsia.

A long banner draped across the doorway wished the happy couple Heartfelt Congratulations on their engagement. Long streams of twisted pink, red and white crepe paper hung from the rafters.

Any hope he’d held on to of missing the entire party died a cruel and violent death. Because the ballroom wasn’t just filled with hearts. It was also filled with people.

Damn. He should have gotten a later flight.

He turned to his right, scanned the bar where several men and women gathered, talking and laughing, ignoring the hockey game that was being shown on the large TV on the far wall.

No hearts there. Not one flash of pink. He could set his ass on that empty stool in the corner, have a drink or two and pretend he wasn’t here. That most of his crazy family wasn’t in the next room creating only God knew what sort of havoc.

But pretending had never been his style. And he didn’t ignore his problems. He faced them head-on.

Anytime the Bartasavich family was together, there were problems. The only questions were how many—and what did C.J. have to do to fix them.

“You,” a familiar female voice said, the tone dripping with scorn, “are, like, in so much trouble.”

C.J. turned to find his seventeen-year-old niece glaring at him. Always happy to see her—even when she was giving him the stink eye—he grinned. “Now, darlin’, everyone knows getting into trouble is your daddy’s job. Not mine.”