We take the stairs quietly to the second landing, past the spare room, even past the master bedroom where we spent so many hours making love. I keep my eyes locked on the hardwood floor, trying not to watch the muscles shift in his back as we walk, trying not to look at his hands, wishing I could hold them. What does he have to show me?
Finally, we stop outside of a door at the end of the hall. It’s one of the guest bedrooms, if I’m not mistaken. There are several of them, seeing that this townhouse is so huge. I frown, feeling suddenly foolish and apprehensive. Maybe I forgot something here, and Tate stored my stuff in this space because it was convenient? My heart drops.
But then he opens the door, nodding for me to look, and I gasp at the sight because this is no lonely guest room with my missing belongings piled in a heap. Instead, it’s a nursery, and a new one at that. The room is painted pale yellow, and a white crib sits under the huge bay window. Several paintings of dancing animals are already on the walls, and some others sit on the floor, not yet hung. It’s obvious that the room’s not finished, but the rocking chair, huge toy chest, and stuffed giraffe in the corner leave no doubt about this space’s purpose. This is a nursery.
I look at him, bewildered. “What…? How…?”
He smiles grimly, as if unable or unwilling to show his emotions to me just yet.
“I know I’m coming off like a crazy man, but I knew you’d come back, Laurelin,” he growls fiercely. “I knew you’d return, and this time, things are going to be different. After all, we didn’t always use protection, and I’m glad.” He takes my hand in his, his eyes blazing into mine. “I should have called you,” he rasps. “I should have apologized for the heinous way I acted, and for the awful things I said, but I was too proud, and I know that now. I’m sorry, Laurelin. I’m sorry I let you walk out of my life and for not giving you a chance to explain.”
Out of every scenario I rehearsed in my head, none of them even come close to the incredible reality I’m experiencing right now. My head is spinning, and my vision is blurry, thanks to the tears springing up in my eyes.
“Am I dreaming? Are you serious?” I whisper.
Finally, Tate laughs, although it sounds more like a bark.
“Definitely not,” he says. “This is real life. This is our life, and I’m not letting you go again.”
I shake my head, completely overwhelmed and still disbelieving at the sight before us. “So this is what you were working with the interior designer on?”
“Not just this,” Tate says, gesturing at the nursery. “I’m redoing the whole house because I want you to like it, and I want our future child to be safe. I want to childproof everything so that it’s a good place for our babies to grow up in.” He presses his lips to my knuckles. “I want this to be our home, sweetheart. I want you to live here with me, and for you to grow round again and again with my children.”
I stare at him, still shocked.
“But are you sure, Tate? You were pretty pissed with me when I left.”
He sighs and looks at the ground, suddenly appearing tired.
“I was angry,” he admits. “Who wouldn’t be? The girl whom I’d fallen in love with – the homeless waif eating a free sandwich in the park, is actually one of the wealthiest women in New York City. Not only that, but you’re my best friend’s little sister, and we’ve met before. Why didn’t you tell me, Laurelin? Why the charade?”
I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice steady.
“I guess it’s because of my name,” I begin in a slow tone. “Saint. The name haunts me everywhere I go.”
He cocks his head at me, blue eyes intense.
“But why?”
I shrug, a little sadly.
“Because everyone knows who I am immediately. Everyone knows that I’m a Saint of Saint Productions, with a billionaire brother and a hefty trust fund. Everyone knows that I host the Black and White Ball each year, where women swan around in thousand dollar gowns. Everyone knows that I’ve never had a real job in my life, and that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Crammed down my throat is more like it. I guess I just wanted to get away from that, and to be the real me for a change.”
Tate looks at me thoughtfully.
“But your life wasn’t necessarily bad,” he says in a judicious tone. “You’re just rich.”
I snort in the most unladylike way.
“I worked in an art gallery and it was absolutely meaningless,” are my words. “I was selling overpriced art to new-money Chinese billionaires who just wanted to flaunt their wealth. Not to mention the tycoons from the former USSR,” I shiver. “I’m pretty sure some of them were using us to launder money. But you’re right,” I continue. “These aren’t ‘bad’ things per se, but it’s just not what I want. I got more out of working with the homeless than hobnobbing with the allegedly wealthy and powerful. My old life was a meaningless situation, and you, with your assumption that I was a homeless waif, gave me a peek into a new way of being.”