Page 33 of Christmas in Kiwi Country

In Chicago, people are animated about being a native to the city but it isn’t like this. People there may live and die by their sports teams, but I’ve been here a handful of days and have been humbled by everything about it.

Maybe I am cynical about my time in Chicago, but it still can’t compare. New Zealand feels like a living, breathing thing, and I find myself more at peace than I have been in a really long time.

I’ve been healing since landing in Clementine Creek—physically, mentally, and emotionally—but so many things were still ingrained in me that I’ve found it hard to truly cleanse my soul of the past. Time and time again, Gwen has shown me she doesn’t want my money but rather my attention, my consideration, and my love. My ex-wife had wanted bigger and better things, and by the time she finally left I felt cheap, like I’d been upgraded.

Poor bastard she left me for was put in the poor house after she divorced him a few years later. She’d elevated her status and wealth with each unsuspecting husband after that, and I could only thank my lucky stars that she’d left us and never looked back.

It hadn’t felt like that for a long time, but now I can see it for what it was. We’d both been desperate for somethingmore, something the other could never provide. The heartbreak and anguish led me here, and I couldn’t hate her for that.

Tears cloud my vision as I look out at the stunning teal water, rocks jutting up from its depths and the waves crashing against them. Picking up a shell from the sand, I take a deep breath and then throw it as far as I can. It disappears somewhere between the horizon and the water but it’s gone.

And so is the burden I’ve been carrying.

Finally.

Gwen’s arm wraps around my waist, her other hand resting against my chest above my heart where I’m sure it’s beating a mile a minute.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly, the wind blowing her hair gently around her face.

“Yes,” I say and her smile is brilliant, and I know that whatever she sees in my face, in my eyes or my expression, is all she needs.

But she deserves to know.

“I forgave her.”

“Your ex-wife?” she asks, her southern drawl softening her words, and I nod.

“So much of my life has been holding on to what she did to me and our daughter, but under all of that I was hurt. I was ashamed and embarrassed and I held so tightly to those feelings so we’d never be in that position ever again, but…”

My words trail off as I look out at the water, and I pull her tighter against me as I tangle my hand in the hair at the nape of her neck and force her eyes up to meet mine.

“I know now, I’d endure a hundred lifetimes of that just to have one with you.”

“Cullen.” Her eyes fill with tears as her mouth parts on my name, and I take it as an invitation. My lips press firmly to hers to imprint this moment on the both of us before my tongue is delving into her mouth and there’s nothing left but us.

Her hands grip my shirt as her body presses against mine, and I pull back only enough to whisper how much I love her in the space between us.

I’ve known tragedy and heartbreak. I’ve known vengeance and deceit, but I’d never opened myself to the possibility of love. In forgiving Carmen, I forgave myself.

It seemed so simple, but until this moment, I hadn’t known I needed it.

I hadn’t trusted myself not to make the same mistakes with Gwen. But none of that matters now because I believe in what I bring to the table as her partner. I believe in her and I believe inus.

Sure, I was bound to get myself in trouble with her, it just wouldn’t be for the same things. I grin as I remember the look of horror on her face when she realized I’d been using her decorative towels to dry my hands in the bathroom.

“What’s that look for?” she asks with a quirk of her brow.

“Just thinking about how excited I am to get yelled at for using the wrong towels for the rest of our lives.”

“Rest of our lives, huh? Think I want to keep you around that long?”

“Yeah, Red, I do. And I want to make sure you do too.” I lean down and pick up a small shell from the sand. The grit and water have worn it down to a makeshift ring—tiny blue-and-tan stripes the only acknowledgment of its former life.

“Is this a lipstick moment?” she whispers, and I smile as I slide the shell onto her finger— a placeholder for the one that will officially make her my wife.

“You tell me, Red.”

“It feels like one to me.”

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