Page 113 of Alfie: Part Two

“That’s still legit,” I was quick to say. “It’s time, papi. I want you to be my husband again. I miss it so fucking much.”

He smiled softly—and a little ruefully. “So do I. That’s why I was looking forward to dropping my next grand-gesture bomb on your sweet ass.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket, and my eyes widened. Holy shite. He had two rings on his index finger. “I was about thirty seconds away from the drop zone.”

I covered my mouth with my hand and shook my head. “I’m a dumbass.”

“No. You’re blunt, impatient, and sweet as hell. I love that about you.” He removed my hand from my face and took one of the rings. “Will you marry me, Alfie?”

The magic words. I couldn’t stop the shit-eating grin if I tried to, and my vision blurred a little.

“As soon as possible, I say very impatiently,” I murmured.

He slipped the ring onto my finger and kissed me hard.

I was so done for. I locked my arms around his neck and pressed myself impossibly close to him. I’d say we’d successfully created our first memory in this house, and it’d be pretty fucking hard to top it. Jesus Christ, it had to be illegal to be this blissed out.

EPILOGUE 2

A year later

October 16th

West Scott

“To be fair, we discuss the Mummers every winter for obvious reasons. The topic becomes relevant,” I said, checking my watch. Two-seventeen. Almost time to wrap it up. “We’ll use two slots the last week of December and a longer one in our New Year’s special.” I made a note on my laptop—dates to be decided. “Circling back to the last special in this quarter—Trina, you had an idea?”

Whoever thought meetings on a Saturday were a good idea needed to be shot.

Thanks a lot, Mark, for being sick yesterday, coincidentally on your wife’s birthday.

“Yes, sir. I, uh…” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and adjusted her glasses.

I waited not-so-patiently.

The other five seated around the table stared at her. Everyone wanted to go home.

Trina summoned the courage and faced me. “It’s been a while since we dedicated a special to the Sons of Munster.”

Was that so fucking hard to blurt out? Christ. Not once had I made my staff uncomfortable around the topic. They sure as fuck didn’t hesitate to gossip about the Sons in the break room. I wasn’t deaf. I’d heard the theories about my marriage to an alleged Son turning into hushed whispers all year.

“Okay,” I replied slowly. “What’s the angle?”

She fidgeted with her pen. “Well, there’s the speculation about the director of the Department of Planning and Development having close ties to Finnegan O’Shea.”

Not a bad angle, aside from the fact that it wouldn’t be easy to justify the reason. A picture or two had surfaced online this spring where Finn had shaken hands with the director—and that was fair. But the fuel on the fire was mostly about both having Irish last names, and I couldn’t bring that to the board.

“I’ll need more than a handshake at a St. Patrick’s Day event in order to call it close ties, but there could be something here,” I replied. “Talk to Camilla and schedule a meeting with me next week where you pitch an outline for the show. But now we go home.”

“Praise the lord,” Devon joked.

I stood up and closed my laptop, and I placed a stack of papers on top. “Mark, I hope your wife had a nice birthday. Give her my best.” I started walking toward the door.

“Yes, sir. Yeah, we went—I mean, it was nothing, really, since I was sick, but…” He trailed off as I walked out of the conference room.

Sick, my ass.

I took the elevator down to the garage and texted Alfie to let him know I was hungry and on my way.

“Uncle West!”

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