He grinned sheepishly. “No, ma’am.”
“Hey, Mom,” Matthew said, “when are you gonna put the Christmas presents under the tree?”
Samara lifted a brow. “What makes you so sure you’re getting any presents?”
His brow furrowed. “We always get presents.”
“Lots of ’em,” Malcolm added.
“Doesn’t mean you’re getting a lot this year,” Marcus drawled. “Or any at all.”
The twins exchanged alarmed glances.
Marcus chuckled, shaking his head at them. “Sometimes I think you boys forget just how good you have it. Your uncle Michael and I grew up poor. You’ve seen our old neighborhood and the house we lived in. Grandpa Sterling and Grandma Celeste did the best they could to provide for us, but they didn’t make a lot of money. So we couldn’t always get new clothes or the latest toys and video games. Sometimes all they could afford were groceries and the bare essentials. There are a lot of kids out there who are less fortunate than you boys. Kids who don’t have parents to buy them presents, kids who don’t live in big houses with swimming pools, kids who can’t attend fancy private schools.” Marcus looked his sons in the eye. “You boys have a lot to be grateful for. Don’t ever take your blessings for granted.”
Matthew and Malcolm looked suitably chastened. “Yes, sir,” they mumbled.
Samara looked at Marcus and gave him a subtle nod of approval.
He nodded back and winked.
Glancing around the room, Samara asked curiously, “Where’s Shadow?”
“I let him outside,” Matthew said.
Samara nodded, then clapped her hands together and announced, “Who wants pancakes?”
“I do!” all three children exclaimed.
“With blueberries!” Milan added.
“Of course.” Samara kissed the top of her daughter’s head, then leaned across the bed to set her down on the floor. “Why don’t you boys take your sister downstairs to watch TV. Dad and I will be down soon to start breakfast.”
As the kids darted off together, Marcus called after them, “And don’t forget to let Shadow in!”
After brushing theirteeth and getting dressed—between stealing leisurely kisses—Marcus and Samara emerged from their bedroom.
They grinned at each other as they headed down the staircase. Fresh swags of garland cascaded down the curved banister and adorned the arched windows and doorways.
When they reached the ultramodern chef’s kitchen, Samara got busy whipping up pancake batter while Marcus brewed coffee.
The massive kitchen was the hub of their growing family. It boasted ample counter space and gleaming stainless steel appliances that included a Sub-Zero refrigerator and double ovens seamlessly built into the cabinetry. A humongous center island topped with marble was a popular gathering place. It was where the boys did their homework while munching on snacks after school. It was where Marcus and Samara would meet at the end of a long day to sip nonalcoholic wine, listen to soft music, and enjoy quiet conversation and laughter.
Arched columns divided the kitchen from a large breakfast nook with bay windows. Three sets of French doors opened onto a stone terrace that led down to an oversized swimming pool and cabana, which overlooked the landscaped grounds at the back of the property.
When the buzzer on the gourmet coffeemaker dinged, the fragrant aroma of the rich brew was so enticing that Samara’s mouth watered. She would have loved a cup of coffee, but she didn’t want to risk harming the baby. Just as she’d done with her other pregnancies, she was limiting her caffeine intake to once or twice a week at work (where she needed it the most).
When Marcus opened the cabinet and removed two mugs, she said casually, “I think I’ll just have some orange juice with breakfast.”
He shot her a surprised look. “Really? No coffee?”
She shook her head.
Marcus stared at her.
Before he could probe further, the phone rang on the counter above the sink. Grateful for the interruption, Samara went over and grabbed the cordless handset, smiling when she saw Celeste Rutherford’s number on the screen.
“Good morning,” she answered warmly.
