Page 82 of A Simple Life

“That’s our new home.”

“This can be your new home. Here. With me. I can paint her room pink. Move her swing. She likes it here. She feels safe. You like it here.”

“Of course I like it here, but that’s not the point.”

“What is?”

“John,” I said gently. “We’re so new. You really want to rush into moving in together?”

His eyes never left mine. “Yes.”

“Wow,” I mouthed, shocked. “I thought we were going to take it slow and make sure we’re ready.”

“I am ready. Move in with me.”

I opened my mouth to tell him no, but the words didn’t come out. My common sense told me to say it. Convince him it was too soon and too much.

But my heart was rejoicing. The thought of living here all the time made me want to yell the word yes and launch myself at him. Stay here—with him. Be part of his family. Have this be my home.

“I need some time.”

He stood and bent over me. “Fine. You think about it. But think about this, Quinn Harper. You’re mine and I’m yours. We’re a done deal. Why should we wait to be happy? I think we both deserve that now. And one more thing to consider.” His mouth covered mine, and he kissed me with a hunger that left me no doubt as to his thoughts. “You and me in our bed every night. Waking up with each other. Being parents for Abby. The whole package.”

Then he walked away.

Later, I sat on the porch, watching John and Abby wrestle. She showed him her karate chop, and he decided she needed a few more pointers. I had given up trying to stop him. He was on his knees so he was closer to her height, and they were play fighting.

“Gimme your best shot, Pumpkin,” he encouraged her.

She raced forward, hands clenched into fists, and drove them into his arm. He looked down, nonplussed.

“That’s a punch, not a karate chop.”

She frowned. “Oh yeah. Bethy showed me punches too.” She rocked back on her heels, flexing her fingers like a martial arts expert, made a whoop noise, and karate-chopped him on the same arm.

“Pretty good,” he said. “Now, let’s put some weight behind it.”

The next twenty minutes, he was patience personified, showing her how to throw a punch properly and use the momentum of motion for her karate chop.

“Let’s try again. Run toward me and let me have it.”

“Karate chop or punch?”

“Surprise me.”

She moved backward, swinging her arms. Then she rushed toward him, delivering a single punch to his chest, and he went down like a felled tree. She jumped on him, laughing, and he lifted her high, making her squeal and yelp in delight. I had a feeling her punch had barely registered, but he wanted her to have some confidence.

A memory stirred, one I had long forgotten. My grandpa and me on the front lawn, doing much the same thing. Him pretending I was stronger than I was and fake-diving to the grass, then tickling me and lifting me, letting me be the victor. I recalled the laughter and the joy of the simple moment, and suddenly, I realized that was what had been missing in our lives.

Even though I had walked away from Preston, I still expected Abby to be a little lady. With John, she was simply being a child. Preston had been against roughhousing or any tomboyish activities. I was less strict, but I didn’t know how to be that person with her. I had forgotten.

John was showing her. Letting her be Abby. It didn’t make her less of a girl. It simply added to her experience.

And he was right—if she was bullied, she should be able to stand up for herself. He wasn’t teaching her to fight. He was teaching her to defend. Be her own hero. And he was doing it in a fun, nonconfrontational way.

I got up and walked over to them. They looked up, expecting me to scold or tell them to stop. Neither of them expected me to drop to my knees and waggle my fingers at John. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, buddy.”

A delighted smile crossed his face. Abby clapped her hands. “Show him, Momma!”