Page 12 of Light

Despite my bubbling emotions, I manage to quip back, “Oh? And did the superstar tell you that himself?”

Reece raises his head—with an expression committed to pure earnestness. “If I said yes, would you doubt it?”

I retangle a hand into his damp, thick strands. “Not for a second.”

My husband catches his lower lip with his upper teeth. The move, usually my exclusive ploy, looks damn fine on his fresh-shaven features—and bloody hell if the man isn’t distinctly aware of that fact. But he only indulges his adorable insolence for an instant, shoving it away for a fresh dose of gravity. “All right, so we’re going to the damn party,” he concedes. “But baby, this isn’t just a dash up to Gelson’s for soy milk or a quick walk on the beach at sunset. We’re not ‘just running into’ Mel and Maddie in passing. Staying in character is going to require some intense concentration.”

I’m beyond tempted to roll my eyes. Instead, I reply as diplomatically as possible, “I’ve taken Sophie Sarsgard out for a lot of test drives by now, okay? She’s second skin for me.” I bump his thigh with mine, signaling that pin-the-wife-to-the-bathroom-counter time is over. “Which, unbelievably, I’m going to count as a win for now.”

But only for now.

I keep the amendment to myself, knowing he’s just as weary of the identity pretenses as I am, despite how neutral he maintains his expression while helping me off the counter. I actually start wondering about his surreal Zen levels, until he turns and continues prepping his look for the night. After grooming his soul patch with stabbing motions, he scoops up some hair product and works it in so vigorously his cock swings like a banana on a rubber band. “You just need to let me know if things get even a little bumpy or you think your cover’s being blown. You need to fucking promise me, okay?”

Aha. There’s the stressed-out guy I know and love. Subsequently, it comes as an oddly weird reassurance, making my answering quip possible. “Ten-four,” I croon back. “Roger-dodger. Copy and print. Cool beans ‘n’ hot fries.”

“Damn it,” he spits out, spinning back toward me. “I’m serious, Emma.” He’s so adamant, even his penis stops the banana gymnastics. Now it’s just there in its normal capacity as a breath-stealing work of art. “Don’t fuck around. If someone starts to recognize you, no witty one-liner is going to conveniently throw them off. That bullshit only works for people in TV and movies.”

“But real-life superheroes…?” I add a smirk to the challenge.

“Not pregnant ones.”

I revert back to a scowl. To Reece’s credit, he’s genuinely remorseful but stands his ground while spreading his arms.

“You demanded the no-secrets zone, lady. So here we are.” He steps back into the bedroom to slip on a pair of tight black briefs, negating the good-thing bad-thing distraction of his cock. “As much as I wish I could help you carry our baby”—he scowls at my bark of a laugh—“the truth is, I can’t. So you’ll have to deal with the overbearing ox husband instead.”

“Oh, whee.” I slide on another pair of underwear for myself, figuring he can take care of the ruined pair on the floor. “Lucky me.”

“Hey.” He grunts while stepping over and yanking me close again. “That’s my line.”

But fifteen minutes later, as soon as we get to the Makras’ place, I’m damn sure it’s legitimately mine. Even play-acting as a nerd space scientist with a nasal problem, the man has a presence that wallops the air as forcefully as the first night I met him—meaning, of course, that half the crowd wants to run from him, and the other half wants to lick him. As we make our way through the spacious but packed living room, across an atrium that’s outfitted in matching Nantucket décor, and then into the sprawling kitchen where Maddie and Mel are holding court, it doesn’t escape my attention that the majority of the “lick him” contingent are women. Also not getting past me is my own onset of Zen about that. I may really be the size of a small house, but I’m also on the arm of the stud who supplied the cornerstone of that house—as well as its magical, incredible occupant.

But as we enter the kitchen together, I also recognize the huge step my mind is taking at the same time. Accepting its epiphany that my confidence has nothing to do with the baby in my belly, the wedding ring on my finger, or the possessive grip my man maintains around my hand. It has everything to do with us—with the invisible but invincible connection between us, which I now believe in more than the air in this room, the gravity keeping us in it, and the orbital pull of the globe that’s responsible for it all. Why the hell has it taken me until now to recognize that? And why the hell has fate picked here for it to happen?

But most importantly, how have I forgotten that fate doesn’t give a crap about timing?

And that it loves to laugh its ass off when someone’s caught in the crosshairs of that truth?

In moments like right now.

Walking into the kitchen to greet Mel and Maddie with friendly hugs.

And then turning to see the small crowd they’ve been entertaining with stories from their summer trip to France.

A crowd consisting of the entire administrative team from the LA office of Richards Reaches Out.

And the New York office.

And Calvin Neves.

Yes, it’s really all of them. And yes, it’s really Cal, who has always held a special place in my heart as the inaugural RRO grant recipient. Helping him out had provided the seed we germinated into the whole concept for the organization—carried out with such passion and commitment by all twelve of the people now gathered in this space. I take in each of their faces, gulping back fresh tears with each visage I reach. Each name I know by heart. Every special soul who has turned my vision into their guiding goal as well.

It’s so special. So surreal. And nearly too much to handle. Under other circumstances, I’d be flashing a stunned stare up at Reece, positive he’d had a hand in gathering everyone into one place like this as his idea of a unique holiday surprise—and he’d have been right. Every one of these people is a precious entity to me. I know about their backgrounds, their families, all the things that make them a unique treasure for what RRO has accomplished. In return, they all know a lot about me.

Except that right now, it’s not me they’ve all stopped to stare at.

Holy God, I hope not.

You’re Sophie Sarsgard. You’re Sophie Sarsgard. You’re Sophie Sarsgard.