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.”
Chapter 2
Declan
“If it isn’t Keating, you jammy bastard!” Cormac Doyle earns several looks as he barrels toward me, the buttons on his dress shirt straining against the fabric. “What’s the craic?”
We meet halfway down the corridor for a hearty handshake, forcing skittish interns and paper pushers alike to sidestep around us.
It wouldn’t be a day at Halberd if two executives didn’t take up more space than necessary.
The only difference is that these days,I’mone of them. I’ll be the bloke in the suit and tie brokering deals and helping Halberd’s UK arm buy up smaller companies.
