57 - Promise
Cordelia
As I cast my gaze across the fields of gold, a blissful sense of belonging flows through me. Like an unbreakable thread tying me to this location, connecting all my memories from the past to my hopes and dreams for the future.
The buttercups are out in their thousands, spreading their mild, but sweet aroma far and wide.
The farm isn’t quite how I remember it all those years ago, but then things are bound to change over the course of more than a decade.
This scenic little place, that was once barely known to a soul, is now bustling with life.
Easter time is always busy. Families flock from all over to take part in the egg trail around the woods and the fun activities the staff put on. Including a big bunny mascot that hops around the grounds offering gifts to the children.
Papa and my baby boy are lay together amongst the tall grasses and flowers.
Less than a metre away two familiar black and white birds chatter in quiet conversation.
I’ve adjusted to them being around now; in fact, sometimes days go by when I don’t spot one at all.
When I opened up to Logan about the whole superstition I clung to, he laughed, said I was daft and needed to find a new hobby.
Then he started noticing them himself. And now it’s he who will point them out when were out and about.
He’ll even show Jaxon, but only when there’s two.
Jaxon is quickly approaching two. The time has flown by, honestly, it’s been a whirlwind of tear-jerking emotions and experiences that I wouldn’t change for the world.
Children bring such enrichment to our lives that I never realised, and our boy is such a happy child, surrounded by family and friends that shower him with love and attention. I couldn’t want anything more for him.
“Your cafe au lait ice cream, little weirdo.” I sweep my gaze from the tender scene playing out in front of me to the familiar voice of my husband.
That rough authoritative timbre that causes a hum of excitement to ripple through my veins, regardless of where we are, who we’re with or what we’re doing.
Logan stands at the foot of the wooden picnic bench, eyes bright and mischievous, donning a grin that’s dripping in equal parts charm and charisma.
The one that forces you to replicate because it’s that infectious.
The one that our son is already manipulating me with on a daily basis.
Logan holds out two wafer cones topped with oversized scoops of ice cream.
But my gaze shamelessly seeks out those broad biceps protruding beneath a very deliberately fitted t-shirt.
Drinking in the sinewy veins expanding the length of his forearms. Goddamnit, I’m practically salivating and it has nothing to do with the delicious ice cream and everything to do with my delicious husband.
“Vixen. My face is up here.” That sexy drawl seizes my attention right away. “And if it’s not your intention to lap up this cream out of the palm of my hand, I suggest you take your cone off me.”
My eyes flit back to his hands gripping the two cones, where his ice cream is beginning to turn to liquid, and dribbling down his fingers in the heat of the sun. The sudden urge to lick them is more than a little overwhelming.
“Sorry,” I say, jumping to my feet all flustered. Heat rushes up my neck in a wave. “Merci beaucoup.”
Reaching over, I retrieve the cone, savouring the delectable scent of coffee beans that wafts beneath my nose.
Logan switches hands, and proceeds to lick his fingers whilst watching me, a lascivious smile creeping onto his lips.
Each digit gets popped into his mouth where he swirls his tongue around it for way longer than necessary.
I blink, then bury my lips in the icy goodness before I can say anything stupid.
The fucker has the audacity to laugh. Then he hops onto the bench opposite me, tonguing the mint chocolate chip ice cream suggestively. What a psychopath! Who actually chooses to put those two flavours together?
“Arrête ca,” I whisper-shout, wrinkling my nose whilst swatting his unoccupied hand that’s resting idly on the table.
“Stop what, vixen?” He smirks, wiggling his dark eyebrows suggestively.
“You know what.”
He snickers. “You’re going to have to spell it out for me, baby.”
It takes all my self-control not to kick him under the table like a child.
This is a completely inappropriate environment to be getting turned on, yet the blood rushing between my legs speaks otherwise.
Instinctively, I squeeze my thighs together, which does absolutely nothing to quell the urge to ravage him across the table.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Thank the lord. Saved by the kid. There's nothing quite like a screeching child to kill the mood. Logan pouts at the interruption, and pivots to where our little boy is making a beeline for us.
“What is it, mon Loulou?”
“We like butter! Look!” Jaxon’s bright blue eyes sparkle with unadulterated innocence as he bounces on his feet like an excitable kangaroo.
My son is a carbon copy of his father, even down to those impossibly adorable dimples.
Clutched between his chubby little fingers is a freshly picked buttercup that he’s waving underneath his chin.
“Ooh lala!” I giggle, observing the golden glow basking his pale skin. “Why don't you see if papa likes it too?”
His grin widens at the prospect, and with a gleeful gasp, he whirls around to face his father.
And immediately zeroes in on his ice cream.
“Glacé!”
The yellow flower falls to the floor, forgotten in the midst of his newfound focus.
Jaxon’s eyes grow impossibly large, his finger pointing at my husband's half eaten dessert. Logan’s eyes narrow, brows furrowing whilst he tries to hide his ice cream from sight.
Nice try, that kids got the determination of a struggling author.
Papa strolls up beside me; an easy-going smile stretched across his lips. He looks so uncharacteristically relaxed in his navy Jean Paul T-shirt and beige chinos. I always presumed he was born into the world in a tailored suit.
“I’ve got to go, ma Cherie,” he announces with a resounding sigh. “I need to be at the airport for six in the morning.”
I scrunch my face, standing to step into his open embrace. He leans back just far enough to lift my necklace with his index finger. “I’ll miss you, buttercup.”
“I’ll miss you too, papa,” I reply as my eyes well up with tears. Every time he leaves, without fail.
He angles his head towards the table where Jaxon is sitting on his dad’s lap, with pastel green ice cream smothered over his lips and chin. With a dry laugh Papa says “Now you know why she always orders coffee flavour, mon ami. Sly little thing, isn’t she?”
Logan lets out a defeated groan. “Next time she’s getting chocolate,” he scoffs, with a grin.
Papa leaves after saying his goodbyes and once Jaxon’s finished his ice cream, Logan keeps him entertained, running through the fields, and playing hide and seek.
Open fields don’t supply the best hiding spots, but my husband has become a pro at pretending to not to see him in plain sight.
It gives me the perfect opportunity to pick up my camera again, to capture the tender loving relationship between my two handsome boys.
When the light begins to fade and both my son and husband have yawned more times than a house cat on sedatives, we pile back into the car.
On the drive back home, Jaxon sleeps with his blanket tugged all the way over his head, like a baby bear in hibernation.
According to his father, Logan used to do the same when he was little.
It freaked me out initially because I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see if he was breathing.
But I’ve gotten used to it now, it’s his comfort blanket and I’d never stop him doing something that helps to soothe him.
We’re home within the hour. Logan scoops Jaxon out of his car seat and carries him upstairs to bed.
For my birthday last year, my husband purchased a pretty stone-built apartment a few hours inland from Nice, in addition to our beautiful house in London, so we could return to visit my hometown more often.
He really is the best, even though I had my reservations.
Whilst he’s upstairs settling Jaxon, I get comfy on the sofa and check for any missed messages on my phone.
As I’m scrolling Facebook, my eyes fall heavy on a post from Lucien.
Green eyes, icy blonde hair and a grin as rare to see on a photograph, as finding a four leafed clover in a field of green.
Theodore.
The caption reads: A whole 2 years since you went missing, mon ami. We miss you every day.
Tears instantly cloud my vision. I never could tell my friends the truth about him, about Dominic Delaney.
I couldn’t bear the thought of them thinking all those years of friendship and bittersweet memories were a fabrication.
Lies. I refused to hear what happened that night when we left him with the mob in the abandoned warehouse.
Logan tried to explain a few times, but I wouldn’t hear it.
When his footsteps echo on the stairs, I hastily swipe away the tears.
It’s been such a wonderful day, and I’d hate to ruin it with my sombre mood and sobbing.
Unfortunately, my husband doesn’t need to see my face to understand something is wrong.
He knows me so well, he can just tell. Before I can react, he plucks my phone off the side and thumbs the screen.
With a heavy sigh, he drops down to crouch at my feet, reaching up to cup my cheeks with his palms. He uses his thumb to brush away a rolling tear.
“Do you trust me?”
Furrowing my brows in bewilderment, I nod.
Those piercing blue eyes drift closed and he nods back before rising to his feet.
“Stay here. Eyes straight ahead.”