Page 54 of Surrender
Nan turned toward Shamus, handing him baby Hal. “Take him, would you, love?”
Shamus beamed and reached for the baby. “Gladly. Come see your uncle now, lad.” With the baby happily tucked in his arms Shamus headed for Henry who had baby Sylvie. The twins never liked being apart for long.
Nan smoothed the front of her blouse and patted her hair, then stepped away from the others and headed toward Keefe, who had retreated back to the kitchen.
She found him there, arms crossed. “What’s eating you?” she asked.
Keefe didn’t look at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said, planting both hands on her hips, “if you’re going to try that ‘I’m fine’ nonsense on me again, I’ll turn you over my knee for lying. I did it when you were in nappies, and I’ll do it again in your best suit.”
That earned the tiniest flicker of a grin. But then he slumped. “Aunt, what am I going to do?”
“It’s Gwen, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“Have you talked to her?”
“No,” he said. His voice filled with regret.
“What’s keeping you apart?”
“What do you think? She lied,” he said quietly. “How can I trust her?”
Nan gave a little snort. “Keefe, love doesn’t always wait for tidy timing, and it’s not always tied up with a bow.”
Keefe laughed weakly. Gwen was practically tied up with a bow.
She was everything he’d ever wanted and more, not to mention, she’d practically landed in his lap. “We were going like a house on fire. And then—gone.”
Nan studied him a moment. “So, if you’re in love with the girl, why are you standing here instead of going after her?”
“Because the family hates her.”
“Do you?”
“I should hate her.”
“That’s not what I asked. What do you say? What do you want?”
He missed her.
He missed how she would take a cup of chamomile tea to bed each night but never drink it—just hold it, palms wrapped around the warmth like it anchored her.
He missed her laughter, bright and breathless, the kind that bubbled out of her when she tried not to spill something.
He missed the way she’d hum absently under her breath while brushing her hair, always the same half-forgotten tune. The way she’d steal the covers, then apologize by curling up close against him.
He missed her questions—the curious ones, the nosy ones, the ones that made him think harder than he wanted to.
He missed how she saw straight through him, even when he tried to keep things light. God, he missed all of her.
Keefe met his aunt’s eyes, throat tightening. And after a moment, admitted, quietly, “Gwen.” It was the first time he’d spoken her real name and it felt so right.
“Well then,” she said with a grin, “what are you going to do about it?”
He straightened, the weight beginning to lift off his shoulders. “I’m going after her.”
