Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
We were partners now. In every sense of the word. And no matter what came next, I knew one thing for certain.
I would never walk away from Aston Couillens.
Not in this lifetime. Or any that followed.
EPILOGUE
ASTON
Tipping my head back and squinting, I heaved a deep sigh. There was paint on the ceiling. Not because I’d put it there. No matter how wild my romps with my wife had gotten in here, that had never happened. But my five-year-old daughter stood below with a suspiciously empty brush and an expression of triumph that told me she was definitely her mother’s child.
“Kallie,” I said slowly, kneeling in front of her. “How did the paint get up there?”
She blinked those big green eyes at me, the same ones Kerrigan had given her and pointed at her older brother. “Dion did it.”
Dion, streaked in blue and yellow acrylic just like his sister, gasped in betrayal. “Did not!”
They were only a year apart, and their bickering was constant. But I knew they’d grow up to be as close as Charles and I were. Some day. Hopefully sooner than later.
I sighed again, but I was grinning as I reached for the roll of paper towels. “Remind me again why we thought teaching you two to paint was a good idea?”
“Because you thought it was ‘time they connected to their artistic roots,’” Kerrigan answered from the doorway of the studio.
Her voice was warm with amusement, her arms crossed over her chest, one hip cocked. Still impossibly beautiful, she was the only person in the world who could make a scolding sound so sensual.
She looked exactly as she had the first time I painted her with only a sheet covering her curves. I’d memorized every version of her over the years, but this one—mother of my children and my partner in every way—was my favorite.
“Mon Dieu, you should have stopped me.” I sauntered toward her and planted a paint-smudged kiss against her cheek.
She smirked. “How could I when you get that starry look in your eyes every time you talk about ‘cultivating genius.’”
I hooked my arm around her waist. “In my defense, they’re pretty damn good at it.”
We both turned to look at our children, who were now chasing each other around their easels while leaving colorful handprints on every surface they could reach.
“They’re going to be artists,” I murmured. “Or delinquents.”
She leaned into me, resting her head against my shoulder. “Or both, like their father.”
The studio was utter chaos, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Splashes of color across the floor, sticky fingers, the scent of paint mingling with Kerrigan’s sweetness…the mess our family made told a happy story. One I never thought I’d have for myself.
“Do you remember the first time you were in here?” I asked her quietly, our eyes still on the kids.
Her smile turned soft. “When you sweet-talked me into modeling for you with only a sheet to cover me before we even shared our feelings with each other.”
“I said it with the painting,” I corrected. “You just hadn’t figured it out yet.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, her lips brushing my jaw. “And then you painted me again. Round belly, big smile. Without the sheet. And I had no idea you were doing it.”
I chuckled and tugged her closer. “How could I resist using you as my muse when you were so beautiful?”
She snorted. “More like I was huge.”
“You were mine,” I said simply, burying my nose in her hair. “Just as you still are.”
That would never change. My love for Kerrigan had only grown over time.
After we took Sterling Ellis down, she had become something of a legend in the museum world. The junior curator who helped expose a corrupt insurance investigator and forged artwork with only months of experience. Her reputation rocketed. And with it, her influence.
Even as her professional star rose, Kerrigan never left my side.
Only a month later, she happily walked down the aisle with my baby in her belly, ignoring the whispers that swirled over the news that she’d tied herself to me. Then she learned how to walk through the spotlight so I didn’t have to.
While I managed deals from the shadows, she handled the front-facing work—vetting pieces, navigating politics, and occasionally feeding carefully curated details to investigators when needed.
Together, we had built something better than I’d ever imagined possible.
“Papa!” Kallie shouted, tugging on my pant leg. “Dion put paint on my ear!”
“Only because you started it by painting the dog,” he yelled back.
I gave Kerrigan a long-suffering look, and she laughed again, shaking her head. “This was your idea, monsieur. You clean it up.”
“As you wish.” I kissed her knuckles before stepping away, but not before whispering in her ear, “Later, when they’re asleep, I’m going to paint you again. Properly. No kids, no mess.”
As always with my wife, I followed through on my promise.