That was the plan. I wanted to draw it out. Make him anticipate me.
When Dad lifts the veil and kisses me, I see the way Gage’s eyes widen, the sheen of tears in their depths. Oh God, if he’s going to cry, I’m definitely going to cry, and I don’t know if I can take this.
Dad hands me over to Gage, and I take my place beside him, surprised when he drops a kiss on my cheek.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice trembling. My heart skips at his words and the sincerity behind them, the love shining in his eyes.
“So do you,” I say, because he does. My groom is gorgeous in his tux, his hair perfect, his expression nervous. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He brings our clutched hands to his mouth and kisses my knuckles, earning a disapproving noise from the minister that makes us both smile.
The ceremony starts with words of love and commitment, the sanctity of marriage, the importance of sticking together through the good times and the bad. We turn to face each other to recite our vows, and I’m overwhelmed with love for Gage as I repeat the words the minister says to me. I mean every single thing I say to Gage, and I know he feels the same way.
Matt hands over the ring, and Gage slips it on my finger, a breathtaking diamond band he chose for me months ago. Then it’s my turn, and I take the simple platinum band from Bryn and slip it on Gage’s shaking finger. He’s still nervous. Excited. I feel the same.
“I now declare you husband and wife. Gage, you may kiss your bride,” the minister says.
There’s a roaring in my ears as Gage pulls me into his arms, his face, his scent so familiar, so dear to me. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, sucking in a harsh breath when his lips light upon mine. The touch is faint and damp, a simple brush before he presses harder, deepening the kiss with a quick and eager swipe of his tongue.
I cling to him, ignoring the hoots and hollers from the crowd because oh my, God, I know we’re putting on a show. But I don’t care. Neither does Gage. I want to remember this moment forever. Want to make this one of the most memorable days of my life—of his too.
“You’re mine now, baby,” he says once we finally withdraw. I smile because he’s grinning at me, looking almost as if he’s in a daze. “It’s official and everything.”
I burst out laughing and throw my arms around his neck, giving him a sound kiss on the lips. “Whether I like it or not?” I whisper against his mouth.
“Oh, you’re going to like it.” He kisses me one more time and then steps away from me, my hands still clutched in his. “I’ll definitely make it worth your while.”
“Promise?” I tease.
Just then, the minister yells, “Introducing Mr. and Mrs. Gage Emerson!”
“For you, baby? Anything.”
Chapter Four
* * *
Archer
MY WIFE HAS been pushing for the last hour and a half and it’s killing me that I can’t help her. That I can’t solve this problem she’s having, that I can’t be the one having the baby for her. I wish I could take on her pain, take on her exhaustion, take on her every burden so she doesn’t have to suffer.
I hate that I have to witness this. Not the birth of my child, oh no. I’m beyond ready to meet that baby of mine. My poor wife though?
She’s suffering, my Ivy. Hunched over, her face is red, her forehead sweaty and long wisps of hair are matted to her skin. Her eyes are wild with a mixture of anticipation and exhaustion and they go out of focus every few minutes. Like she’s here, but not.
Her feet are in stirrups, her knees bent as the doctor and nurse hover at the end of the bed, checking her between the legs. She freaked out a little bit when they laid her down on the birthing table. Panicked. She’s been saying for weeks that she wants the baby out, but now that we’re at the final moment, I think she’s having regrets about the entire child-birthing process, though I know that’s just nerves talking.
Anyway, too late now. There’s no going back. She knows this but . . . pregnant women can be a little irrational sometimes. Not that I would ever, ever admit that to Ivy. Or any other woman who’s given birth.
The only thing that reassures me in the midst of the chaos and the worry is the sound of my child’s steady heartbeat coming from the monitor, filling the room with a relentless beat that tells me they’re doing just fine.
Wish I could say the same about Ivy. She’s worn out.
“You okay?” I ask her, tracing my fingers down her forearm, drawing her attention. “You’ve almost got this, baby. You’re doing so good.”
“I’m okay.” She nods but her voice wavers, and I wonder how okay she really feels. “I just want this to be over with. I’m so tired.”
“Maybe . . .” I let my voice trail off, not sure if I should say what I want to say to her or not. I clear my throat. “You’ve been going at this for hours. Maybe you should consider a C-section? I know we discussed natural childbirth, and you didn’t want to have a cesarean, but—”
“I’ve only been pushing for two hours, if that. The baby isn’t stressed. I’m not a quitter, Archer.” She sits up straighter, her expression determined. “I’ve got this.”
Aw, man. She’s set out to prove me wrong now.
This is usually my cue to give up the fight but, damn it, I’m scared out of my mind something could happen to Ivy. And I’m not about to lose her. I can’t even fathom the thought.