“Shiloh…” he whispered gruffly.
I knew how he felt, the overwhelming perfection of the moment washing over me too. I squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, anchoring us to the present, sharing our strength. I felt the power of our partnership that had seen us through so much together and that had carried us through when we were apart.
Eleanor began the ceremony, giving a little speech about the power of enduring love, and then had us repeat the traditional vows. It would have been too much to ask Ronan to write his own to be recited in front of fifty people. It wasn’t his way—Ronan made vows to me every day: in the work he did to help create our perfect life, in the way he loved our son, and in the grasping embraces in our bed at night. The intensity of his gaze when he looked at me held all of his promises, and I knew deep in my soul that this love was going to last forever.
“And now the rings,” Eleanor said, and the entire congregation awwwed as August, in a miniature version of the men’s suits, climbed off Mama’s lap and toddled up.
“Hi, Mama! Hi, Daddy!” he exclaimed loudly, setting the crowd off again and making my eyes shine.
“Hi, baby,” I said, taking two boxes from his hands and passing them to Eleanor. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“Okay, bye!” he said, job done, and rushed back to my mother’s lap.
I exchanged a grin with Ronan, but nerves twisted my stomach. We’d both wanted to keep our rings a secret until this moment.
“Ronan,” Eleanor said, handing him one of the boxes. “If you will take your bride’s ring.”
My heart pounded as he opened it, and inside lay the silver-gold ring with our birthstones, glinting up at me in the brilliant sun.
I stared. “You…? You made that order?”
He nodded, taking the band from the box. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “This one helped.”
Grinning proudly, Holden twiddled his fingers at me, and then I knew why the Parisian order had felt familiar.
I shook my head, marveling, as Ronan leaned in. “Is it tacky that you made your own ring?” he whispered. “I just couldn’t imagine giving the job to anyone else. But…I designed it. If that counts for anything.”
“You designed it,” I whispered back. “That counts for everything.”
We locked eyes, and I nearly kissed him before it was time. Eleanor cleared her throat; we were holding up our own wedding.
We straightened, and Ronan took my hand and repeated the words, With this ring, I thee wed, then slipped the ring over my finger. It fit so perfectly; I couldn’t imagine how I’d lived twenty-two years without it.
Then it was my turn to reveal the ring I’d made for Ronan—a wide band of hammered black gold with a vein of twenty-four karat-gold gleaming down the middle. To me, it represented the heart of gold that beat inside the chest of the man standing across from me, whose love and goodness shone brightly, even through the darkest of nights.
I opened the box, and Ronan’s jaw tightened again. He shook his head at me. “It’s perfect,” he whispered. “It’s…”
His thought trailed, and I was glad when Eleanor had me recite the words to Ronan so that he could recover.
“By the power vested in me by the State of California, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Eleanor turned to Ronan. “You may kiss your bride.”
Ronan took my face in both hands, his eyes meeting mine for a split second—speaking volumes—before he leaned in to kiss me, the crowd erupting in sniffles and cheers.
“I love you,” he whispered against my lips. “God, Shiloh…”
“I love you,” I whispered back. “I love us.”
I felt a tug at my dress. August was there, reaching for us. Ronan scooped him up, and the three of us walked down the aisle together. My husband carrying our son—pieces of my heart existing outside of my body, and yet I’d never felt more whole.
III
One year later…
Behind closed eyes, I heard the shuffle of footsteps, heavy ones, against the noise of the street traffic. The damn headache pills had put me to sleep again, and the hard concrete made my ass numb. Someone was close. Without opening my eyes, I shook the plastic Big Gulp cup. The rattle of coins sounded lighter than they had earlier that morning. Someone had probably ripped me off. I almost cared.
“Spare change?” I muttered, giving the cup another shake. Fuck, something stunk. Then I realized it was me.
“Hey,” said a deep voice. One I recognized. A sliver of fear slid down my back and I came wide awake.
Ronan Wentz was crouched on his heels in front of me, the busy downtown streets behind him. He looked good. His jeans were paint splattered, but they looked new. Like his work boots. His T-shirt read Wentz & Morales, Contractors. The shirt was tight around his huge fucking arms—arms strong enough to punch through glass and haul a guy out of his car window.
“What do you want, Wentz?” I muttered, sitting up. My stomach growled loudly. I was used to it, hunger was a part of life now, like my limp or the way my eyelid drooped. But Ronan frowned and stood up.
“Come with me,” he said.
I snorted. “I got nowhere to go. No place to be.”
Nothing to eat. Nowhere to live. Nothing. I have nothing…
Ronan rubbed his hand over his jaw. Behind him, I could see the sign for Rare Earth Jewelry. Of all the places in downtown Santa Cruz to sit and panhandle, near Shiloh’s shop was my favorite. Not so close that she could see me but close enough that I could watch the steady stream of customers come in and out, most leaving with little white bags with gold writing on the front. Knowing her store had survived was the only thing I had going for me.
And it wasn’t fucking much.
Ronan nudged my falling-apart Converse with his boot. “Come on, Frankie. Get up.”
I scowled. “What the fuck for, Wentz? I did my time. We got nothing to say to each other.”
He cracked his neck, deadly casual. “Yeah, we do. Unfinished business.”
Shit.
If Wentz wanted to break me in half, he could. I guessed spending a year in the clink for making a false accusation wasn’t enough. I’d been out for three months, living on the street. Maybe Shiloh had seen me after all.
I got to my feet, struggling with my left leg that always felt like it had fallen asleep and was just waking up. Pins and needles, all goddamn day. Nerve damage, the docs had said. Dad had fucked me up good.
I grabbed the trash bag that held everything I owned in the world and followed Wentz to the Pizza My Heart. He pointed at one of the wrought iron tables out front. “Sit.”
“I’m not your fucking dog, Wentz,” I said but sat down anyway. Mostly because I hadn’t eaten in two days.
Ronan ignored my comment. “Pepperoni?”
I shrugged. If he was going to feed me before he beat my ass, may as well let him.
“My last meal,” I snickered tiredly.
Ronan returned a few minutes later with two large sodas and two slices of pepperoni pizza each. He slapped a plate down in front of me, but it was the soda I went for first. Cold, sugary, fucking heaven. I drank until my forehead ached, then dug in to the pizza.
Ronan ate too, not saying anything, confident and strong, while I felt pathetic and weak. But I was used to that feeling. Ever since I was a kid and my dad saw I wasn’t going to be a big football player like Chance Blaylock. Or Mikey Grimaldi who, last I heard, had finished his six months for filing a false police report and was working the gas station down by the highway.