Page 74 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
Epilogue
Molly
“Okay, everyone, smile!”My mom bustles into the room with her phone in hand, already holding it up to take another picture.
“Mom,” Wes and I groan.
“Every year,” he says, looking at me as he nudges a few crumpled balls of wrapping paper with his foot.
“Every year,” I agree. I try to smile, but I think it looks more like a grimace—here’s hoping nobody notices. Wes doesn’t, at least; that’s for sure. He’s the least observant person I know when it comes to his family members. I think if I showed up bald, he’d tilt his head to the side and ask if I’d done something new with my hair. My parents aren’t as bad as Wes, especially my dad, but he doesn’t seem to notice anything off, either. He just smiles indulgently at my mom as he throws one arm around Wes’s shoulders and drags him forcefully to stand in front of the Christmas tree.
No, the only person who appears to know something’s up is my husband. He’s been watching me with a keen eye, his gaze trailing after me all morning. He’s been suspicious for days, in fact.
Now I jump as I feel his arms encircling me from behind; I turn my head to see him leaning over the back of the couch, his arms draped over my shoulders, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers something meant only for me to hear.
“You gonna tell me why you’re being so weird?”
I turn my head toward him again, trying to hide my smile. We’ve been married for three years, but Beckett still takes care of me the same way he did when we first fell in love. He makes sure I’m okay, makes sure I’m happy, and I do the same for him.
“These look much better on you than they do on me,” I say to distract him, plucking at the fabric of his sleeve. The designated O’Malley Christmas pajamas this year are a shade of red that clashes horribly with my hair, decorated with a little pattern of candy canes and mistletoe.I wanted ones with little fish wearing Santa hats, but I was outvoted.
“And that’s why you’re being weird?” he murmurs in my ear, sounding amused.
I grin. “Could be.”
“Come on, you two,” my mom says, flapping her hand at Beckett and I and then pointing to the Christmas tree where Wes and my dad are waiting—my dad smiling genially, Wes still trying to escape the borderline headlock he’s got him in. “Christmas morning pictures!”
I heave an exaggerated sigh and force my tired body to stand up. Beckett’s hands brace on my shoulders from behind as he helps steady me. Then he rounds the couch and joins me next to Wes and my dad. Wes’s eyes catch on Beckett’s arm around my waist before darting away again.
Things were a little patchy between them for a while when Beckett and I started dating, but it wasn’t long before Wes realized how serious we were about each other. After that he mellowed.
“All right,” my mom says, squinting at her phone and holding it way closer to her face than she needs to. “I’m turning on the self-timer. It’s going to count down from five, and everybody needs to smile, all right?” She turns around and slides her phone into the slot on the phone tripod she has set up on the top of the fireplace. We got it for her several Christmases ago for this very purpose. “All right,” she mutters again. “Here we go…it’s starting! It’s counting down! Everybody smile!”
I grin as my mom begins to count.
“Five!” she says, bustling over to the group of us. “Four!” She stands next to Wes, slapping my dad’s hand so that he and Wes stop tussling. “Three! Two! One—”
“I’m pregnant!” I shout.
Click!The camera makes its little shutter sound as it takes the photo, but no one is looking at it anymore. Everyone is looking at me.
My mom’s eyes are wide, her jaw dropped comically. My dad has a massive smile beginning to stretch across his face. Wes is looking back and forth between me and Beckett, looking dazed.
“You knocked up my sister,” he says faintly to Beckett.
I ignore him. The only reaction that really matters is Beckett’s. So I turn to my husband, wrapping my arms around his waist and studying his face.
His mouth is gaping open, his expression a picture of stunned surprise. Then, slowly, a smile appears—huge and glowing and so genuine it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle in a way they rarely used to when we were growing up.
“You’re pregnant,” he breathes.
“I am,” I say with a nod.
“I knew you were being weird!”
“I’ve been pretty nauseated,” I admit.
He smooths his hands over my hair. “Here, sit,” he says, steering me back to the couch. “Sit down. Do you need something? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need ginger tea—”
