touching my skin.
Before she could move, I grabbed her, held her tight, and kissed her. The way I could anytime I wanted. Because she was my wife, and we loved each other.
“I love you, Mrs. Webber,” I said with a smile.
“I love you too, Mr. Webber,” she said, smiling back.
Mom came out, and Katie immediately ran over to us. “Dada! Whity!” I leaned down and scooped her up into my arms, Whitney embracing both of us. We kissed our little girl’s cheeks and tickled her until she squealed.
Then Whitney led her to her friends, Katie’s tiny hand wrapped in Whitney’s larger one. And I watched the two of them with an overwhelming love that engulfed everything.
“You’re a very lucky man,” my father said, looking on at my wife and daughter with affection.
“Yes, I am,” I agreed.
I was the luckiest man in the world.
Forever.
The End
Dear reader,
First of all, thank you so much for reading my books! It’s passionate readers like you that allow me to live my dream and do the thing I love most on earth, which is writing books and entertaining people!
Do you want more of Whitney’s and Kyle’s world? Then make sure to get your copy of “Say You’ll Stay” now! This time it’s Meghan’s and Adam’s turn to fight against all odds for the love of their life!
Get your copy here!
Until then, do you want more steamy romance?
Then make sure to keep on reading! I’ve included a preview of my novel “Unexpected Heat”! ;-)
Preview: Unexpected Heat
Chapter 1
Mila
I love my studio, and right now, it’s super tidy with everything on my desk arranged neatly and the easels standing side by side. My gaze falls on my three work-in-progress portraits, and I know they’ll soon go to the trash can. They look terrible.
A heaviness comes over my body.
How long will it last, this inability to work? The last time I turned out a good piece was almost a year ago. Thankfully, I’ve been prolific over the last couple of years, taking in portrait jobs that have earned me a nice nest egg. Money is not an issue.
It is the growing hole in my chest where my heart should be and the feeling of restlessness that can only be relieved by my work. And yet, I can’t paint. What if my ability to paint never comes back? Panic spreads in my chest.
Painting is the one thing that has always belonged to me, that kept me sane no matter what was going on in the rest of my life. Clay took with him my self-esteem and my ability to love again. But worse than those things, is that since the day he left, I haven’t painted. It’s as if my hands have forgotten how to move the paintbrush across the canvas, and my brain can’t fathom what is expected of it.
The doorbell rings. The sudden noise jolts me out of my thoughts. A rare intrusion. I tick off all possibilities. There is only one person who would come to my house without calling first. The one person I never want to see again. The cause of my painter’s block.
I leave my studio on the second story and sprint down the stairs. I peer through the keyhole. Clay’s dark eyes stare back as if he can see me. With a sigh, I fling the door open.
“What do you want?” I say with no pretense of politeness. We are beyond that now. With the divorce final, there’s nothing to bind us together anymore.
“Is that any way to greet your husband?” he says and leans on the door frame.
Anger coils itself around my insides. I inhale deeply. I cannot show him how angry he still makes me. “Ex-husband,” I point out, my tone casual.
He has bags around his eyes. Once, that would have made my heart squeeze and brought out my protective feelings. Now, I observe him impartially. As one would a stranger.
I take in his bushy eyebrows, long hair that falls to his shoulders, and I can’t believe that I once found Clay hot. He’s wearing a leather jacket even though the weather is too warm. He peruses me too, his eyes lingering on my chest. He always loved my big boobs. I fight the temptation to cross my hands across my chest to protect myself from his stare. He frowns as he takes in my flared shorts. Clay hated when I wore shorts or spaghetti tops. He insisted I cover up even when I wasn’t going to leave the house.
I can’t tell