Page 37 of Room 1017

I’d been planning a big reveal at dinner tomorrow, but maybe this was even better. A way to make a great day perfect. I bit my lip and nodded, watching as the emotions played across Peter’s face. When tears collected on his lashes, I crawled around the picnic basket and let him pull me into his lap. He buried his face into my neck and let the tears flow freely. “Oh angel, you’ve made me the luckiest man alive.”

“Me too! I wanna hug too!” Rowan didn’t know what we were celebrating, but he insisted on being a part of every hug—as did Hurley, our love-starved rescue dog, forever making up for what he’d been lacking those first years of his life. Peter knew from experience how these pile-ons tended to go, so he leaned back and took us all down with him. By his wide smile and happy tears, I knew there was nowhere else he would rather be.

Same, I thought peacefully, my heart fit to burst.Same.

The temperature began to drop in the afternoon, and goosebumps lifted down my arms. The towels were still damp, so that meant it was time to go home.

“One more, pleeeeeeease,” Rowan pleaded, hopping in place. The splash pad was mostly empty now, families heading home for dinner.

Peter tried to look stern, but it was all a ruse. He would never say no to our son, not when it was something so simple to say yes to. “Two minutes, that’s it. Time us,” he said to me.

I pulled my phone out of the bag and set the stopwatch. “Okay, make it count.”

Rowan went whooping, his chubby little legs catapulting him straight back into the spray. So much for drying off. Hurley was completely tuckered out, happy to stay by my side as I packed up.

Peter used his cane this time, and I could tell he was tired. He refused to let that stop him, though. He knew he could take it easy at work tomorrow. For now, he gave his all for his family.

“Five, four, three, two…” I called, carrying our stuff back toward the car.

Before I could get to one, Rowan was back. “I win!” he cried enthusiastically, though I didn’t tell him it wasn’t a race.

“I guess that means I’m the loser,” Peter said, rocking up behind him.

“Don’t worry, there’s a prize for second place too,” I told him huskily, giving him a soft kiss before I loaded our stuff into the back of the minivan.

“Mm, goody. I look forward to claiming that prize later, after the kiddo’s asleep. I might even claim it twice.”

We hopped into the van, still damp and very much happy, ready for a lifetime of tomorrows.

Epilogue

The Staff

Springwasofficiallyinthe air. It was Emerson Holland’s favorite time of year. It meant his kids wearing rubber boots so they could jump in puddles, and still somehow ending up with soaked socks—but the giggles as they tracked wet footprints all through the house made it more than worth it. Springtime meant making last-minute snowmen that would melt and sag by the afternoon. It meant muddy trips to the park.

Even thinking about it all brought a smile to his face.

Spring was a time of renewal. It was a chance for a fresh start, a clean slate.

Emerson himself had been given a fresh start. As the manager of The Scarlet Hotel—the hotel his grandfather had established way back in the 1920s—his life had always been filled with responsibility, and it had made him stern and regimented. But then along came the love of his life, andeverythingchanged, in all the ways that mattered. Now Emerson was the owner of the hotel, along with his husband, and while he still prided himself on being organized, he was also much calmer now. He washappy. He was even known to crack the occasional smile or two around his staff.

Emerson truly believed that everyone should do whatever it took to find that person—theirone—who brought them peace and balance. Life would never be complete without them.

Today, however, was one ofthosedays. The ones that weighed Emerson down and made him second-guess not selling this damn hotel years ago. It was far more trouble than it was worth. First, there’d been a “minor” kitchen fire during the lunch rush, which the chef, Cherie, downplayed, of course, but it had left the lingering scent of smoky grease in the air.

Then, one of the kids had gotten away from Mercy, who ran a sort of day camp in the afternoons for guests who needed to get some work done or who just wanted a few minutes of quiet without their children. Emerson had spent a good 15 minutes searching the halls, until he’d had the brilliant idea to shout “Marco!” A tiny giggling voice had replied “Polo!” from somewhere around the corner. This was one of his twins’ favorite games, because Hide-and-Seek was only fun if there was a chance someone could find you. Emerson blew out a long breath of relief when he found the child hiding in the bottom of a room service cart. Losing someone’s child would not be good, and not just because of the bad press.

The day had continued with a whole string of bad luck, that if Emerson looked too closely at, he might wonder what he’d done to deserve this kind of karmic payback. Unreasonable customer complaints, lost luggage, a delivery shortage of laundry soap, a mystery smell on the tenth floor nobody could find the source of. Yep, it was just one of those days, and Emerson couldn’t wait for it to be over.

Luckily, the smoke had cleared by the time dinner rolled around, because they had a very special guest joining them this evening. FBI Agent Peter Brown was a bona fide hero, and not just because he’d nearly lost his life in protecting one of his charges in witness protection, Decker Sherbern. He had also, in a roundabout way, saved this very hotel, because without Decker’s help with some financial issues, Emerson’s future here would’ve looked very different. He wished he’d known of their entwined fates the first time he’d met Mr. Brown, the day that miserable elevator had chosen to break down. Emerson had received a phone call from their mutual friend this morning, though, informing him of the connection and requesting that their meal be a special one.

Which was why, when Peter and his husband Casey came in for their anniversary dinner, Emerson led them to a private space, with nothing but an intimate candlelit table for two.

Peter, who was no longer in a wheelchair but instead brandishing the most exquisitely glamorous cane, stopped in the doorway to the otherwise empty ballroom. “What’s all this?” he asked, with no shortage of doubt and suspicion. “This isn’t the restaurant.”

His husband, however, whose arm was hooked in his, looked appropriately delighted. “Don’t be rude, Peter. It’s romantic!”

Emerson stepped aside and gestured grandly toward their table, a pool of golden light in the otherwise dark room. “A gift from the Bradley family.” Bradley being Decker’s newly assumed last name.

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