Ellen gives me her best hairy eyeball.
“It’s hot out. Let’s go inside. Cora made lemonade and iced tea.”
“How is Cora?” Ellen asks without trying to sound catty.
When she hired Cora to do some light house work for Jon after both of his parents passed away, she didn’t expect Cora to keep his bed warm as well—especially since she’s only five years older than Ellen.
“Oh, she’s good. Keeps me young.”
Ellen frowns at me as we follow him into the house.
“And you say I frown. Be happy for him.”
“You’re such a guy.”
I am. Cora’s a little too fake for my taste. And by fake, I mean her perky double D tits. But if Jon has a heart attack and dies with his face nestled between them, we’ll have to believe he died a happy man.
“Elle! Flint!” Cora bounces those big boobs in our direction.
Elle hugs Isaac to her to avoid the full-on boob hug. Then she quickly passes him to me before Cora hugs me.
Well played, dear.
Elle smirks.
“Hand him over.” Cora takes Isaac from me and snatches the diaper bag from Elle’s shoulder. “I’ll give him a diaper change and find a healthy snack for Aria. You two head upstairs and get settled in. Enjoy a little alone time before dinner.” She winks.
I like Cora. I don’t see what Elle’s issue is with her.
“No. They’re going out.” Jon winks at Cora.
“Oh! Yes. We’re watching the kids while you two have a night out alone.”
“Alone?” I raise a brow. “What’s that?”
Elle can’t hide her smile. She knows it’s true.
“Flint, come with me.” My dad nods toward the master bedroom.
“And you come with me.” Cora grabs Elle’s arm and drags her upstairs.
*
Ellen
“What do you think?” Cora opens the bedroom door.
There’s a dress draped across the bed. It was my mom’s. A simple strapless black dress with a delicate cream ribbon tied around the waist. I remember trying it on when I turned eighteen, but my mom was bustier than me. It’s always been a timeless dress. And I haven’t seen it in years, but it’s still my favorite.
“Your dad went through some of your mom’s stuff that was packed away in the attic. He said you always loved this, but it was a little too big. I told him he should alter it for you. He didn’t have your measurements, but I think it might fit okay now. Do you want to try it on?”
I feather my fingers along the silk ribbon. “Yes,” I murmur.
“Wonderful! I’ll plug in my curling iron and do your hair and makeup.”
I take Issac and feed him while Cora grabs my bags from the car. Then Aria plays with him on the bedroom floor while Cora makes me feel like a princess.
“You’re good at this.”
She smiles. “I worked at a salon for ten years. There.” She gives my curls a light misting of hair spray. “Let’s get you into the dress.”
I step into it and she zips the back. It hugs my curves perfectly. I close my eyes and remember how my mom looked in it—how my dad looked at her when she wore it.
“Beautiful.” Cora presses her hand to her chest.
“Thank you,” I say. And I mean it sincerely. Maybe she’s exactly what my dad needs in his life right now. Cora doesn’t have to be my mom. I’m not Heidi.
“You’re welcome.” She picks up Isaac.
“There’s a bottle in the diaper bag.”
She nods. “I already put it in the fridge.”
“Mommy beautiful.”
I look down at Aria. “Thank you, sweetie.”
I like this life. A lot.
“Coming?” My dad calls from downstairs.
I ease my way down the stairs in the heels Cora got for me that are a good inch higher than what I usually wear.
Flint’s jaw unhinges as he takes a few steps backward like he’s losing his balance. “Leaving me speechless, Elle.”
I grin. We didn’t have a wedding. Neither one of us wanted it. We both did the wedding thing the first time. Instead, I slid on his ring and I took his last name in front of a judge.
But right now I feel like a bride walking down the aisle.
“On a scale of one to ten, how speechless?”
He takes my hands and brings them to his shoulders and slides his hands around my waist. “Infinity. Just like my love for you.”
I step back just enough to admire his new three-piece suit, much like the one he wore when we got married. A Jonathan Samuel Anderson original. But my dad used a different material this time, maybe more silk with fine pinstripes—and a sexy red tie.
I yank that tie several times until he smiles so big my heart wants to burst because … this life … it’s mine.
After I deem the knot to look as perfect as my man, I grab his lapels and pull him a little closer.
“Flint Hopkins, you sure do look the part.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my dad smile. It’s a lot of joy with a sliver of sadness.
“What part is that, my beautiful wife?”
“My husband, of course.”
The End
Acknowledgments
A heartfelt thank you to the usual suspects …
Tim, Logan, Carter, and Asher—my favorite guys.
Leslie, Kambra, Sherri, and Shauna—my unicorns.
Max—my smart-ass editor. ; )
Monique, Kambra, Leslie, Shauna, Allison—the polishing crew, aka proofreaders.
Jenn Beach—personal assistant, graphics genius, and gatekeeper to my sanity.
Jenn and Sarah with Social Butterfly PR—My best find of 2017. You both rock!
Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations—book cover guru.
Regina Wamba, MaeIDesign & Photography—It’s like you read my mind when you took the cover photo!
Paul with BB eBooks—I don’t know how you do it so well and so quickly, but you are amazing!
Readers—author friends, bloggers, Jonesies, and every single person who reads my words.
Sneak Peek of Transcend
Chapter One
Nevaeh. It’s Heaven spelled backwards and the name of the girl to my right with her finger five stories up her nose. I grimace while readjusting in my chair. It has nothing to do with her disgusting habit. One of the wings to my pad is stuck to my pubic hair. Mom worries about tampons and toxic shock syndrome. It can’t be more painful than this.
The receptionist keeps glancing at us through her owlish glasses, tapping the end of her pen on her chin. “Nevaeh, do you need a tissue?” she asks.
My parents are not the weirdest parents in the world after all. Lucky me.
Roy.
Doris.
Cherish.
Wayne.
With over ten thousand baby names in the average name book, how does one settle on such horrible names?
Backwards Heaven glances over at me as if I have the answer to the receptionist’s question. I’m not the tip of her finger. How am I supposed to know what it feels like up there? After inspecting her size—smaller than me—and her yellow hair in a hundred different lengths that looks like something my mom calls a DIY, I give the receptionist a small nod.