Page 108 of Take The Risk

​But I’d learned the stories with easy beginnings often had a disappointing end.

​The beginning of my story here wasn’t easy. It wasn’t pretty. And I was glad. It meant when we got to the end, we would never take the love and happiness we found for granted.

​At some point, Ty got up, leaving me with his mom, my mom, Helen, Louise, and Abby.

​Abby, being the shit disturber she was, had to ask about the next book in my romance series coming out, followed by how Cady-Jo liked knowing her “soon-to-be-daughter-in-law” (she said that in a dramatic whisper ’cause we were all pretending like Ty wasn’t planning on slipping the ring he’d bought me on my finger once everyone left) was one of the hottest romance authors of our time.

​Cady-Jo grinned. “I’ve had the next Asher General book pre-ordered for weeks. I can’t wait to read it.” She twisted her mouth. “Er—which reminds me. I was kinda hoping you could make me a promise?” She addressed this to me.

​“Oh?”

​“I was hoping you’d promise whatever you write wouldn’t have any of what goes on between you and Ty?” She looked at me hopefully. “I need to know what happens with Cole and Carrie”—she named my characters— “without having to burn the book before I read it.”

​An image of the day Ty bent me over the dining room table, and we’d “worked” on my scene came to mind.

​“Oh, gross!” She gagged. “Please tell me Ryder’s book is okay at least! You can’t do that to me!”

​“Ryder’s book is fine.” Mostly. I didn’t think the fantasies I’d had about Ty prior to us getting together counted. Did they? I definitely shouldn’t ask.

Chapter 41

​God clearly got off testing me. There was no other explanation for it.

​Not only had I had to endure the hellacious time when Phoebe was in the hospital, but now six weeks after she came home, I was enduring a new kind of hell.

​Burying my nose in her hair, I inhaled the scent of her skin. My cock throbbed against the soft, rounded curve of her ass while she slept.

​It was like this every morning.

​I’d wake up first, my internal clock trained by years of construction. I didn’t mind that. It gave me a chance to watch her as she slept, her hair spilling across the pillow, her breathing soft and even with the occasional soft snore. I took this time to revel in the fact she was alive. My wife was alive and in my arms.

​Her marriage to Jeremy hadn’t been over for more than a day before I carted her to the church. Everyone had gone above and beyond decking out the place. It was perfect and as easy a day as possible for Phoebe, who still needed so much care and rest.

​When I’d asked her to marry me the first night she was home, I’d been clear I was going to marry her legally the second her divorce was final. She thought I was joking. I wasn’t.

​Brushing her hair back from her face, I counted the smattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose.

​The image of those freckles, tinged in pink as she walked down the aisle, rose in my mind.

​“My God…”

​“Mom’s pretty,” Lock agreed at my side. Lock, my dad, and Wade were my best men. I wanted them at my side when the vision walking toward me made me question if I was alive or if this was heaven.

​Phoebe wore a white gown of lace and satin, showing off the curves I loved so much. The green of her eyes glowed as she made her way to me. Her hair fell in waves around her face, a concession she made because she knew I couldn’t resist sifting my fingers through it.

​Alex walked beside her, only to stumble for a second. Then with determination, she brought Phoebe to me.

​The moment was perfect. Surrounded by the people we loved and who loved us the most in return, I made Phoebe my wife according to the law. She’d been my wife for a while, something only she and I knew.

​When I’d proposed to her, I’d recited the vows I’d given her the first night in the hospital.

​She’d wept then. “I’d hoped that was real,” she said. “I dreamed and I hoped.” She’d heard me in her coma. She’d heard me, and that moment was just for us.

​In front of our family, I gave her my vows again. I’d do it again and again and again, if it meant she looked at me like that.

​When it was her turn, I was the one who couldn’t contain my tears. Everyone was confused when she had Alex hand her a book. A book, a single edition that would never be published, and yet was her greatest work, she claimed.

​“As a writer, I have lived most of my life in stories. Some about love. Some about pain. But there was always one story I couldn’t write. I know now it was because it wasn’t only mine. It was ours. You walked into my broken house and saw more than the damage. You saw me. You saw my son. You saw every locked door, every secret, every frightened piece of me, and you never made me feel ashamed for needing time to open them. Your love is the pen in the story of us. Your courage is written in every moment you were beautifully, unapologetically, you. Your strength gave me the safety to be me. You took a woman and her son, and by simply being you, gave us proof God still writes beautiful things. So today, I offer you my heart, my soul, and this.” She handed the book to me. “This is the story of us. The first pages, anyway. I promise to keep writing it with you every day for the rest of our lives. I take you, Tyler Marcus Brockmann, as my husband, my best friend—”