“I don’t care,” she said, and there was a desperation in her voice that broke his heart. “If I’m going to die, I want to remember the feel of your mouth against mine. I want your lips on me. Please. Just for a little while. I don’t feel the pain when you’re kissing me.”
He couldn’t deny her. Not when tears clung to her lashes like diamonds, threatening to spill over. Not when defeat lived in her eyes—defeat he’d never seen there before, not even when she’d faced death at Riley’s hands. She thought these were her last moments, and she wanted to spend them like this. With him.
He leaned forward and took her lips with a tenderness that belied his fear, trying to pour everything he felt into this kiss—his love, his desperation, his refusal to let her go. The closer she’d gotten to her time over these last months, the less frequently they’d been intimate. Her discomfort had grown, and his worry had made him cautious. His need for her was fierce, had always been fierce from the first moment he’d really seen her, but his need to please her was greater. His need to keep her safe was greater still.
But right now, in this moment, she needed this. Needed the connection, the reminder of what they had together, the physical proof that she was alive and he was here and they were still them despite everything.
Her gasp of pleasure was music to his ears, a sound he’d been afraid he might never hear again. Her fingers grasped in his hair, holding him close as if she could anchor herself to life through this connection. He deepened the kiss, letting his hand cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.
“Oh, God,” she gasped against his mouth, and there was something different in her voice—not pain exactly, but a shift, a change. And then he heard a rush of water and felt the mattress beneath her go suddenly wet, and her grip tightened painfully in his hair.
“The baby’s coming,” she said, straining to sit up with renewed energy, her exhaustion forgotten in the face of this new urgency. “He’s coming right now. I have to push.”
Elizabeth still had a grasp on his hair—painfully tight—so he extricated her fingers carefully, trying not to hurt her even as his own heart hammered against his ribs with fear. He had no idea what he was doing. He’d helped birth calves and foals, but this was his wife. His child. What if he did something wrong? What if he hurt them?
But there was no time to call for the doctor. No time for fear or hesitation. He could see the crown of the baby’s head already, dark hair slick, and Elizabeth was bearing down with a strength he didn’t know she had left after twenty-four hours of labor.
He moved into position, his hands shaking so badly he had to clench them into fists for a moment to steady them. Then he reached out, ready to catch his child, and almost before he was able to position himself properly between Elizabeth’s legs, the baby slid into his waiting hands.
The infant was slippery and impossibly small and perfect, and for a moment Cole couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but stare at the miracle he was holding. His son. His son. The baby’s eyes were screwed shut, his tiny fists waving in the air, and his face was red and angry looking and absolutely beautiful.
And then the baby’s mouth opened and he let out a wail—loud and strong and full of outrage at being thrust into this cold, bright world—and Cole felt tears streaming down his face as he cradled his son against his chest.
The doctor rushed in at the first sound of an infant’s cry, Bessy close on his heels, and suddenly there were hands taking the baby from him, wrapping the infant in blankets, tending to Elizabeth.
“Well then,” Doctor Jones said, and there was surprise and maybe a little admiration in his voice. “It seems you handled things just fine on your own.”
Cole barely heard him. He watched as Bessy, their housekeeper who’d been with Elizabeth’s family for thirty years, cleaned the baby with practiced efficiency and wrapped him in the soft blanket Elizabeth had spent months embroidering. The doctor worked on Elizabeth, got her cleaned up, murmuring reassurances that she was fine, that everything was fine, that she’d done beautifully. Cole helped her into a new nightgown, his hands still trembling, and then they were ushering everyone out with promises to check back in an hour.
And then, finally, they were alone with their son.
“Riley John O’Hara,” Cole said, deciding his son should share his middle name with Elizabeth’s father. And when he looked into his son’s eyes, he knew he would lay down his life for the child in his arms.
“This is the start of our legacy,” he said, his voice hoarse with pride. “From this day forward the O’Haras mean family.”
“Our family,” Elizabeth said. “Now kiss me goodnight. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.”
“I’d never argue with the mother of my child.”
She laughed and said, “I’ll remember that the next time you want to argue about something.”
“Maybe you’ll forget I said that, just like I’ll forget your promise to never let me touch you again.”
“Well… It seemed a good idea at the time,” she said.
They were both laughing as their lips touched.
Excerpt - Midnight Clear
Sophie Jacobs loved Christmas.
She loved looking through the plate-glass window of her bookshop and seeing snow flurries dance to the ground, their delicate patterns illuminated by the antique gas lanterns that lined Main Street. She loved the scents of cinnamon that drifted down from Heaven’s Delight Bakery and the fresh pine from the boughs that hung above the doors of all the businesses in downtown Laurel Valley. Most of all, she loved the spirit of Christmas—the good cheer, the joy, and that giving was worth more than receiving.
The Reading Nook stood like a proud sentinel on its hilltop, overlooking the Bavarian-inspired village that had grown into a thriving resort town over the past decade. Unlike the perfectly maintained alpine facades of the other buildings—with their ornate trim, flower boxes, and painted shutters—her bookstore was housed in a three-story white clapboard Victorian with a widow's walk and a round stained-glass window at the highest peak. It didn't fit with the town's carefully curated aesthetic, but it had been there long before the historical society had ever drafted their first building code.
So she couldn't figure out why Hank O'Hara was standing in her crowded store, seeming larger than life in his boots and rugged lambskin coat, asking if she had a few minutes to talk. No she didn't have a few minutes to talk. Couldn't he see that both cash registers were three people deep? Or that Julie Milton's little boy had just knocked over a display of handcrafted beeswax candles she'd imported from Vermont? Or that Freddie, her part-time clerk, looked like she was coming down with a cold and would probably have to be sent home soon?
The worn oak floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she moved back to the counter, the sound blending with the soft instrumental Christmas music playing through hidden speakers. Every corner of the bookstore had been transformed for the season—pine garlands draped along the built-in bookshelves, vintage ornaments hanging from the ceiling beams, and a massive Fraser fir by the fireplace, adorned with tiny lights and miniature book ornaments.
