Nora Roberts: The Next Always

“Well, good for you, but—”

“I had to get his okay before I asked you to marry me. He said it was okay if you want to. Please want to. Don’t make me look like a loser in front of the kids.”

The hand she’d lifted to push at her hair froze. “You asked my not-quite-nine-year-old son for his blessing?”

“Yeah. He’s the oldest.”

“I see.” She turned away.

“I’m messing this up. I love you. I should’ve started with that. I swear I trip up more with you than anybody. I love you, Clare. I always did, but it’s different loving who you are now. It’s so damn solid. You’re so solid, so steady, strong, smart. I love who you are, how you are. I love those boys, you have to know.”

“I know you do.” For a moment she stared at the trees, their bare branches soft in the shimmer of her tears. “I could love you if you didn’t, because love, sometimes, just is. But I couldn’t marry you unless you loved them, unless I knew you’d be good to them. I love you, Beckett.” Eyes dry again, she turned back. “You brought them dogs I didn’t think I wanted, and you were so busy talking me into it you didn’t see me fall at your feet. I love you, Beckett, without any doubt, without any worry. And I’ll marry you the same way.”

She threw her arms around him. “Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.”

“I bet I do.”

“We’re going to find out, because—What is that in your pocket? And don’t say you’re just happy to see me.”

“Oh, forgot.” He pulled out a small bag. “I got you a new hairbrush.”

For an instant she only stared. Then she cupped his face in her hands. “Is it any wonder?”

He scooped her in, swung her around. And holding her close shot a thumbs-up to the boys.

Her boys—his boys—their boys let out whoops and cheers, and ran toward him with dogs barking at their heels.