She gives me a sexy little smile. “Should we make a baby together, Mr. Smolder?”
“Yes. Yes, we absolutely should.” I sweep my hand around the back of her neck and pull her in for a whirlwind of a kiss. I kiss her like she’s my forever, and my wife, and a mother to my child, and the mother of our future children—because she’s all those things to me and more.
Someone catcalls from the crowd, and she pulls back, a sexy flush to her cheeks. I love putting that flush there.
I can’t stop my grin. “Is there anything else? Or should we go and get married?”
“Let’s do it.” She smiles, and we walk back to the officiant, who soon pronounces us husband and wife.
Forever.
Later on, after we dance the night away with our family and friends, we make good on our commitment. I strip off her dress to reveal her lacy blue lingerie, and I make love to my wife again and again and again.
Three months later, we learn we’re pregnant, and eight months after that, we welcome our second daughter into the world. We name her Ashlee, after Bryn’s mom.
And from the moment I see her sweet little face, I fall in love all over again—with our daughters and the woman who made me believe in love again.
A Little Epilogue
Ransom
* * *
But wait. Whatever did happen to my sister and Martinez? Was it as simple as an auction bid? Is falling for someone ever simple?
Never.
Let’s hear it from them though as we go back in time to the auction.
The Story of Tempest and Martinez
An Extra Special Epilogue
Tempest
* * *
The afternoon of the auction . . .
* * *
So it’s a Saturday afternoon, I’m hanging at my brother’s Murray Hill pad, reviewing a column I’ve written on the best ways to avoid hidden fees in mutual funds, when a solar eclipse occurs.
The sun, moon, and earth align.
Metaphorically.
First, an email lands in my inbox from my lit agent, Viviana Grayson.
* * *
Tempest!
* * *
Guess who just earned a bonus for her German edition of The Girl’s Guide to Personal Finances? It’s also my favorite kind of bonus.
* * *
The big, huge kind with lots of zeroes.
* * *
They love you in Germany.
* * *
And Korea. Check coming from there.
* * *
And Hungary. Yet another check.
* * *
And Brazil. One more check.
* * *
I’ll be sending you royalty checks from all those territories this weekend. Click on the PDF to see the amounts.
* * *
Xoxo
Viv
* * *
Naturally, I click that PDF so fast my finger hits a new land speed record.
I blink.
Blink again.
Enlarge the PDF.
I mean, I do wear glasses. So I might be seeing it wrong.
But that is a hella lot of zeroes.
Like, five zeroes.
And I write back to Viviana with a series of fireworks GIFs because I’m not entirely sure what else to say.
Except Thanks for being the badass you are.
So I add that and hit send.
Then my brother jerks around, fiddling with his bow tie. “Temp, you don’t think Martinez is hot, do you?”
The last name rings a vague bell.
Just to get his goat, since his goat needs to be gotten, I furrow my brow. “Who’s that? An actor on Scrubs?”
He rolls his eyes. Something he does with me so frequently I sometimes worry they might get stuck in the back of his head.
“Scrubs has been off the air for years. Good job, Ms. Anti Pop Culture.”
I point out how well I know Broadway as he explains that Martinez is the guy he’s always referring to as Marty Boy, which is why I rarely hear his full name.
Then he says it.
Adrian Martinez.
And does that ever ring a bell.
That rings all the tingly bells indeed.
But it’s nice to mess with my brother.
With lightning speed, I turn to my best friend, Google, and look up “Adrian Martinez.” The Adrian Martinez with the dark blond hair that has such a delicious swoop to it. The one with those crystal blue eyes, and with that jawline—it’s statue-worthy.
He’s the guy.
I met him two days ago.
I’m not simply talking about walking past the Times Square billboard. Though he’s hard to look away from there in his briefs, plastered over ten stories of New York skyscraper.
I’d like to count my royalties over the grooves of his abs.
With my tongue.
“Why didn’t you tell me your Martinez was Adrian Alejandro Martinez from the Gigante underwear ad in Times Square?”
And from earlier in the week during an interview.
Only, I can’t let Ransom know. Not yet, at least. That would give my brother too much fodder and too much ire. He’s more protective than he needs to be, but this girl makes her own choices. I close my laptop, rearranging my face to be expressionless so he doesn’t see right through me.
I’m good at that—presenting a poker face to the world if I have to.
