Page 123 of A Really Bad Idea

“What were we?”

“More.”

As he pulls me in and kisses my hair, I relax into his embrace and look back at the fountain. The one I cursed not too long ago.

My hand flies to my chest in a panic. “My necklace! I threw it into the fountain. I was angry because she didn’t give me my wish.”

Instead of being concerned, he pulls me in and laughs. “That’s okay. It’s served its purpose. I always hoped it would bring you to me in the future.” He takes the penny he proposed to me with and holds it out to me. “Do you want to make a wish?”

With the shake of my head, I say, “No. I don’t think I’ll be making any more wishes.”

“No?” He looks back at me, confused.

“My wish came true. I wished for you.”

“All these years?” he asks.

With a hand on his jaw, I tell him my secret. My one wish. “Every time. It was always you.”

He grips my waist and pulls me in. His head buried in my neck, he kisses along my collarbone and under my ear, and he lays the most tender of kisses on my jaw. With the penny in his hand, he holds it up to his lips and gives it a kiss, tossing it into the fountain.

I raise a brow at him in question.

He lays a protective hand on my belly and whispers, “I can’t tell you, or it won’t come true.”

My teeth skim my lip as I pull him toward me and the west side of town. “Let’s go home.”

“Not so fast.” He pulls me back, motioning back toward the hospital.

I grimace at him, wondering what he could possibly want to do instead of going home and celebrating the first day of the rest of our lives.

“You still have to get your mom John Frieda,” he says, and I fall into his chest in laughter.

And this is why Dr. Christian Gallagher has always been my wish.

Epilogue

“This is my cardio for the day,” I say as I bend my knees and get down into an Egyptian pose.

“This is your song. You should be kicking his butt!” Dylan says, disappointed in my low score.

“Don’t let Uncle Christian beat you again!” Aiden bellows form his spot next to me.

“It’s all in the hips,” Christian says as he twists his torso, following the avatars on the screen.

I sneak a glance at the way he gyrates his hips, and I momentarily lose my place in the dance moves.

“Eyes on the screen.” He winks with his focus turned to the television.

We’re in a one-on-one battle of Just Dance. The song: “Everybody” by the Backstreet Boys.

Never play a video game, any video game, against a surgeon. Their eye-hand coordination is impeccable.

Dylan shoots his theory down. “It actually doesn’t matter what you do with your hips because the remote in your hand is tallying the points.”

“It’s anatomy. Trust me, Dylan; you’ll learn soon enough that the hips and hands go hand in hand.”

I kick Christian in the shin. “He’s not even old enough to play Fortnite, let alone have an analogy from his uncle.”