Each thrust twisted it tighter.
Each whisper of my name stoked the fire.
“Fuck!” I cried out, seizing up as a second orgasm rocketed through me. Hard. It was so explosive all I could do was snap my hips up into his, chasing every last ounce of bliss that had turned my head fuzzy. Weston came a moment later, crying out as he managed a few more uncoordinated thrusts.
When he finally settled into my arms, his breath warm against my neck, I knew it was forever this time. I was his and he was mine, and this was all we needed—each other, Milo, Callum, Agnes, and the wonderful folks in Braeburn.
And sure, maybe even Bonnie.
Our perfectly imperfect little family.
32
LENA
4 Months Later
“They’re coming up the driveway now!” Agnes cried from somewhere in the castle. The excitement in her voice was palpable. “Room’s all made up,” she added a little breathlessly as she poked her head into the dining room where Weston and I were sitting.
“Thank you, Agnes.” Weston turned to her, grateful. “You’ve really gone above and beyond helping us get ready. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
“We appreciate it,” I agreed. For weeks now, she’d been scrubbing the castle from top to bottom, organizing furniture and unboxing toys and books for us while Weston was busy with wind farm meetings and I was swamped with schoolwork. “All the little touches have made Lochbrae feel homier than ever.”
“Oh, well—” Agnes huffed, waving off our thanks as her cheeks pinked.
“And the place has never smelled better,” Weston added, inhaling deeply. “Is that your famous garlic and chive?—”
“The scones!” Agnes cried, her eyes widening dramatically. She turned on her heel and darted for the kitchen.
Weston’s lips twitched as he glanced over, catching my eye across the table. A smile slowly curled across his face that was giddiness and uncertainty all in one. “I think she’s a little nervous.”
“It’s a big change,” I said. The weight of that fluttered in my own gut. It was a mix of anxious anticipation, excitement, and the tiniest dash of fear. Would I be a good foster mom? I shoved that thought aside. “How long has it been since there’s been a child around Lochbrae?”
Weston nodded. “Not since Grandad’s camp came to an end.”
“Exactly.” I closed my textbook and set it aside. “She just wants everything to be perfect,” I said, which I understood. I’d battled my nerves these past weeks by throwing myself into school. I’d finally gotten into the grad school of my dreams—one with an online program that allowed me to stay in Lochbrae with Weston.
Between my schoolwork and finishing up our foster placement courses, the number of books in the castle had exploded. Weston had insisted on reading up on as much as he could before weactuallybecame foster parents, and he’d been engrossed in books on trauma-informed care and the foster care system itself. The trauma books had been surprisingly eye-opening for him in regard to his own childhood.
“I think we aim foralmostperfect,” Weston said. “That way we have room to improve.”
I smiled softly at his words, the chaos in my stomach settling momentarily. “I think we can do that.”
“Because we’re in this together,” he said, climbing to his feet and coming around the table to press a kiss to the top of my head. It was sweet, and as he reached for my hand, I let him pull me into his arms. “We can doanythingtogether,” he promised, pecking my lips, and that’s how I knew I’d be good at this foster mom thing. Weston was with me, and he wasn’t going to let me fail.
I tightened my grip around his waist. “You’re nervous though, too, right? I sort of feel like if I open my mouth too wide, a whole load of butterflies will fly out.”
He grinned. “The kid would probably get a kick out of that. And yes, I’m terrified. But also excited. And I feel…ready.” He nodded, as if reassuring himself. “Because I’m taking this next step with you, and I trust us to get through this process. Through the good times.”
“And the tricky times,” I added. “Like negotiating bedtime.”
“Doing schoolwork.”
“Eating her vegetables. Don’t forget, brussels sprouts are out.”
“That’s right,” Weston said, grinning. “What else did the file say? She likes Scotch pies. Brussels sprouts are her nemesis. And she wants to be a footie player when she grows up.”
“Who doesn’t?” I teased. We’d gotten the file a couple weeks ago and had spent an entire evening poring over it, piecing together the complicated little life. How one child could go through so much upheaval in six short years was heartbreaking, but Weston and I were determined that this would be the place that would make her feel welcomed and wanted and safe.
