“Son, this is a moment,” Rhys says theatrically. “Your mother is entering the big leagues, and we’re opening the best bottle of champagne ever made in the history of mankind.”
Finn frowns. “That seems a bit…much.”
“No hyperbole, bud. Dom Perignon is the best champagne in the world, and I want this to be your first taste of alcohol, which will ruin you for any of the swill you’ll be able to afford once you turn twenty-one.”
“What about me?” Mikaela asks.
“Orangina for you.” Since Mikaela doesn’t get soda, this is as exciting for her as it is for Finn to have his first sip of alcohol…at home. He’s sixteen, he’s probably tasted a beer here or there. I had by the time I was his age, and so had Rhys.
“To Jayne.” Rhys holds up his glass. “My brilliant, unstoppable wife.”
“Mom is unstoppable?” Mikaela holds up her champagne glass with the orange soda.
“Yes,” Rhys says, kissing my temple. “She absolutely is.”
We clink glasses, and my heart opens.
The last of my doubts about whether we can save our marriage vanish. I know we can. I know we will. The man who is drinking his prized wine to celebrateme is the same Rhys he’s always been—but with different priorities.
After the toast, Rhys wraps an arm around my waist, pulls me close, and murmurs, “You deserve this. All of it. And I’m so sorry that I ever suggested you should quit your job and stay home. You’re too good for that.”
Not once did he hesitate in being happy for me. Not once did he warn me about “when I go back to work.”
I rest my forehead against his. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head. “Baby, no reason for you to thank me. This is all you.”
“Could you”—I cup his cheek—“do what you do without me?”
His eyes fill with emotion. “Baby, I can’t even make it through the day if you’re not waiting for me somewhere.”
“Me neither,” I manage to choke out.
“We’re both more together, Jayne; we can both be more when we take care of each other.”
“Yes, Rhys.”
He kisses me, and he tastes like Dom Perignon and unadulterated joy.
CHAPTER 26
Rhys
“Dad, those are getting burned,” Finn observes, pointing at the griddle where I’m making pancakes, from scratch, not a box, because Jayne doesn’t do that.
“It’s called caramelization,” I lie, flipping a pancake that looks like it’s been through a coal mine.
Mikaela blinks at me over her orange juice. “That’s not what Mom’s pancakes look like.”
“Mom’s pancakes are a work of art, Peanut.” I plate the burnt one for myself. “These are rustic.”
Jayne walks in just in time. “Rustic?”
“Authentic?” I suggest. “Artisanal?”
She smirks and hands me her phone. “Can you read this email and tell me if I sound like a B?”
“You never sound like a….”
