Chapter 42 Nick
NICK
Avery's laugh reaches me before I round the corner into the kitchen the next morning. Bright and unguarded, followed by the quieter murmur of Brenda's voice.
I watch them from the entryway, and for a moment I let myself simply stand here. Taking it in. Letting it become real.
Avery and her mother sit at the marble island, morning light flooding through the tall windows and catching the steam rising from their cups. Brenda's hand covers Avery's on the countertop, a gesture so natural, so unthinking, it speaks to the strength and depth of their bond.
This is what I almost lost yesterday. The sound of my wife's laugh.
Her mother's weathered hand covering hers.
The kitchen I built for a solitary life filled with warmth and love and family.
Simple domestic moments, which, twenty-four hours ago, existed only in the prayers I didn't know I was capable of making.
I step into the kitchen, and both women look up.
Avery's smile shifts when she sees me, softening into a look meant only for us, even with her mother watching.
The shadows beneath her eyes are nearly gone.
Color has returned to her cheeks. She looks like herself again, and the relief it brings me is a physical thing, loosening muscles I didn't realize I was still holding tight.
"There's coffee," she says, nodding toward the carafe. "And whatever those pastries are that magically appeared before anyone else was awake."
"Almond croissants and walnut rugelach." I pour myself a cup, then settle onto the stool beside her. "The bakery around the corner opens at five."
Brenda's eyebrows rise. "You went out at five in the morning for pastries?"
"Couldn't sleep." The admission is simple, unguarded. I don't elaborate. Don't need to. Both women understand what kept me awake. The same thing that had me checking on Avery three times during the night, watching the rise and fall of her breathing just to confirm she was still there.
Brenda studies me for a long moment. Then she reaches across the island and squeezes my forearm, the kind of gesture that doesn't require words.
Everything she might say is contained in that touch.
Gratitude. Acceptance. The acknowledgment of what I did yesterday on that rooftop and what I was willing to do.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For bringing her home safe. For bringing me here."
My throat tightens. "She needed you."
"She needed both of us." Brenda's gaze moves between Avery and me, something settling in her expression. "I'm glad she has you, Nick. I didn't always know what to make of you, but I do now."
Avery's hand finds my thigh beneath the counter, her fingers pressing warmth through the fabric of my jeans. I cover her hand with mine, threading our fingers together where her mother can't see.
"Two days," Brenda says, and something like wonder enters her voice. "My baby girl is getting married in two days."
Avery laughs softly. "Technically getting married again. The legal part's already handled."
My brows rise, and Brenda smiles at me. "Avery told me a few minutes ago about your private sunset wedding in the Keys.
It sounds lovely. But this one on Saturday—this is the one with the dress I can't wait to see.
The one where I get to walk my beautiful daughter down the aisle to her Prince Charming. "
I glance at my wife, just in time to catch her lowered glance and sly smile.
Prince Charming. Christ. A man with my particular history of manipulation, secrecy, and ruthless deal-making wearing that title is enough to make me choke on my coffee.
But Brenda's eyes are warm and certain, and Avery's fingers tighten on my thigh—a silent reassurance that says you are, to me—and I let it go.
I've stopped arguing with the people who love me about whether I deserve them. It's a fight I'll always lose.
Brenda looks at Avery now, and her voice catches. "I've been dreaming about seeing you this happy since you were a little girl, you know. The fact that I'll get to stand next to you as you get married is a gift I never expected I'd live to see."
The weight of what Brenda has survived settles over the moment. The long years of incarceration, the sacrifice she made for her daughter, the future she must have believed was lost forever. And now she's here, in my kitchen, talking about walking Avery down the aisle in less than forty-eight hours.
My own mother would have loved this. She would have loved Avery.
Her warmth, her strength, the way she sees the best in broken things and refuses to let them stay shattered.
My mom would have sat at this island with us and laughed with her daughter-in-law and cried at the wedding and held her grandchild when it came.
I swallow against the tightness in my chest. It’s a brief ache, thinking about my mother, a gentler grief than it used to be.
Brenda stifles a yawn, then shakes her head with a rueful smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. The flight was early and I didn't get much sleep last night either. I'm still catching up."
"Go take a nap if you want to, Mom," Avery says.
I nod. "The guest room is ready for you."
She rises, gathering her teacup to take with her. As she passes behind me her hand touches my shoulder, light, almost hesitant, but warm. Then she's moving down the hallway, and I hear the guest room door close softly behind her.
The penthouse settles into quiet.
Avery turns on her stool to face me, her knees pressing against my thigh. "Hi, Mr. Baine."
"Hi yourself, Mrs. Baine."
The smile that curves her mouth is the one I fell in love with—warm and knowing and carrying just enough heat to remind me that we're alone now. No hospital. No crisis. No audience. Just the two of us and a morning stretching ahead with nothing demanded except each other.
I reach for her, my hand finding the curve of her waist, drawing her off the stool and into the space between my knees.
Her arms loop around my neck. This close, I can smell the vanilla of her shampoo, can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes.
I can feel the warmth of her body through the thin cotton of her loose T-shirt.
"How are you feeling?" The question is quiet. Not about the crisis we endured. It’s about everything.
"Better." Her fingers play with the hair at my nape. "Tired. Happy. Grateful that my mom is here and that my ridiculously handsome husband apparently brings me pastries at dawn."
"Ridiculously handsome?"
She grins. "Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late," I growl, drawing her farther into my embrace and well aware that she can feel my hardness as she presses her body to mine.
I kiss her. Soft at first, just the brush of mouths, relearning the shape of her. Then deeper as she melts into me, her body pressing close, her fingers tightening in my hair. The heat that's always between us stirs and stretches, unhurried but unmistakable.
My hands slide down her back, retracing the curves I know better than my own reflection.
Hip. Waist. The dip of her spine. She feels so fucking good in my arms, her curves pressed against me, her arms wrapped around my shoulders, holding me close.
I sink into the pleasure of holding her, feeling her warm, alive, and mine in every way that word has ever meant.
I pull back before we get carried away in the kitchen where her mother might wander back out. "Come with me."
Her eyebrow arches. "Where?"
"Bedroom." She doesn't resist as I slide off the barstool and take her hand in mine. "I have something for you."
I lead her down the hall, into the sanctuary of our room. Morning light spills through the windows here too, catching the smooth linens on the bed, the soft gray of the walls. I guide her to sit on the edge of the mattress, then release her hand.
"Wait here."
I step into the huge walk-in closet and retrieve the box I've been keeping hidden for weeks.
Large, tied with a silk ribbon the color of champagne.
I'd planned to give her this on our wedding night—the public one, the one the world would see.
But after everything we've been through, waiting feels wrong.
She deserves this now. She deserves to know what's waiting for us on the other side of Saturday.
When I return, Avery's watching me with curiosity bright in her eyes. I set the box on the bed beside her.
"I wanted to give you this after the wedding." My voice is low, raspy with emotion. "I wanted to wait until the timing was perfect, but—" I stop. There's no need to finish that sentence. She knows.
She pulls the ribbon loose with careful fingers. Lifts the lid. And goes still.
Inside, nestled in soft foam, rests a scale model of the sailing yacht I purchased for her.
Every detail rendered in miniature. The sleek hull, the polished brass, the crisp white sails unfurled as though they’re filled with sea air.
She lifts it out, turning it in her hands, wonder transforming her face.
Then she sees the name painted on the stern. Elysium.
Something moves over her expression, a reaction I can't quite read. She inhales a small breath. Her eyes go wide, then soften with a delight that seems almost secret. She looks up at me, then back at the model, and there's an intensity in her face that doesn't match simple appreciation of a gift.
"Nick." Her voice carries a weight I don't understand. "You named it Elysium?"
I nod. "It felt right." I pull out my phone, open the live webcam feed I've bookmarked. "She's real. Waiting for us in the Mediterranean."
The screen shows sun-drenched turquoise water, a slip at a private marina, and the actual yacht gleaming at dock. Avery stares at the image, her lips parted, that secret emotion still playing across her features.