Only and Forever (Bergman Brothers, #7)

by Chloe Liese

“I don’t want to leeeeeave,” Linnea cries. Freya grimaces. “And that’s our cue to go home and get this sleepyhead to bed.” “I’m not sleepy!” Linnea howls.

“See you soon, Linnie Loo. We’ll do this again, okay?”

“Promise, Lula Blue? Again and again?” Tallulah nods solemnly. “Promise.” Linnea smiles. I’m smiling, too.

Again and again. I like the sound of that. More than I should.

Tallulah and I coaching soccer, Tallulah and I playing with my nieces and nephew. Tallulah and I cuddling, watching movies, putzing around the bookstore, walking the dogs. Tallulah and I . . . That’s a com...

Three stick figures standing on green grass, all of them smiling. One tall, with a huge brown beard and brown hair and a dark blue ball cap. One short, with ice-blue hair and a triangle dress. The last one, biggest, in the foreground, wearing a rainbow triangle dress, bright smile, blue eyes, black squiggly hair. Me, Tallulah, Linnea. Red hearts dance all over the stick figures, floating up to the big sun overhead. Stick-figure Viggo and Tallulah hold hands, two overlapping circles.

I’m feeling so much, so much more than I ever thought I would about the woman standing before me.

“I . . .” Exhaling slowly, I hold her eyes, find my courage. “I’ve . . . never . . . done this before, Tallulah.”

My face is bright red. I am my father’s son in this aspect—no red hair like Ren and Ziggy’s, but a solid auburn streak and their same capacity to turn the color of a beet when thoroughly embarrassed.

“Absolutely. We’ll keep it to . . . cuddles?” she offers. “Definitely. Kisses, too. I think those seem reasonable.” She bites her lip. “I won’t say no to kisses. Hugs?” “Implicit in cuddling, Lulaloo. Obviously.” Laughing softly, she tugs me toward her by my shirt. “Then come here and cuddle me good night.”

It feels so right. Like a puzzle piece slipping into place on a click that echoes through me. I hope she feels that, too. Even if not now, not yet . . . one day.

“You’re stunning, Lu.” “Gee, thanks.” She shrugs, then does a twirl that reveals a peek of lacy blush-pink panties. A whimper catches in my throat. “Oops.” She pats her dress down. “Accidental Marilyn Monroe moment.”

“It’s going to go perfectly,” she says quietly. Her hands squeeze my shoulders once, hard, then fall to her sides. “How do you know?” She smiles up at me, rosy round cheeks, deep dimples. “Because you’ve built much more than a store, Viggo. You built a community and now you have a place for it. Believe in yourself. They all do. See for yourself.”

My eyes narrow. That smile. That laugh. They’re not supposed to be for other people. They’re supposed to be for me.

“Thanks, Ollie. For everything. Cheering me on. Coming tonight. Bringing half the soccer team.” He lifts his hands. “Don’t look at me. They asked to come. I just told them about the store. Same with Ren, Seb, and the hockey team. You shouldn’t be surprised. How many of them have you turned on to romance over the years?”

You built a community and now you have a place for it.

“I wanted to grab that fucker by the scruff,” I mutter between kisses, “and throw his ass out of the store.” “I wanted to take that Barbie by the hair”—she gasps as I bend and bite her neck, chasing it with a hot lick of my tongue—“and drag her out the way she came.”

He’s got neck tatts. After Clint, I’m over people with tatts for life.” I pull back, breathing roughly, as I undo one button of my shirt, then another. “Then I’ve got bad news for you, Clarke.” I shake off my shirt hastily, tossing it aside. “Because I’ve got ink.” Tallulah’s mouth falls open. “Fuuuck,” she groans. Her hand comes to my shoulder, to the mountains and evergreens, the water running through it, spilling toward my pec. “Deal-breaker?” I ask. She shakes her head quickly. “Never mind. Tatts are fine. Great, actually.”

I won’t even pretend I don’t want to—be ordered around by her or do what she’s told me.

“That’s it,” I grit out, pumping myself. “Rub that pretty pussy for me, Lula. Make yourself come.” She cries out, watching me as I jerk myself in earnest now, panting. “Fuck, Lu. You’re so beautiful. You make me so fucking hard.”

“Now, that’s what I call a good opening night.”

“Sweet dreams, Lula,” I call. She turns at the threshold and smiles coyly. “I’ll be dreaming, all right. But I guarantee you it won’t be sweet.”

I give them both hugs, soothed by those warm, sweet bodies, their steady, loyal affection that always makes me feel better.

stop by the sofa, where the kittens sleep, like little ants on a log, snoozing across the length of the sofa. I slide a hand down each of their backs, feeling soft, fluffy kitten fur, tiny purrs rumbling their ribs. Pet greeting complete,

“Therapy is exhausting. Proud of you.”

But it feels harder, every time I hug him, to let go.

“That smile,” he whispers. His gaze fixes on my mouth. “That is a beautiful thing.”

This is the car that drove him up and down from Escondido while he built a dream in that beautiful brain, while he delivered orders from his baking hustle, to odd jobs during the day, to his parents’ late at night and early in the morning to bake some more, so he could save and save, working steadily toward making his dream come true.

Insomnia having struck again, I sit in the main living area’s two a.m. darkness, knitting baby Bergman-MacCormack number three’s blanket, swaying in my rocker, headphones on for a reread of one of my favorite historical romances, one side half-off so I can hear the dogs down the hall in my room, if they start barking at something in the middle of the night, which they occasionally do.

Soft doggy whines emit at the door. I glance back to see Romeo and Juliet, obediently waiting at the threshold, eyes pinned on Tallulah. Tallulah opens her eyes and sees them, too. She smiles faintly, then lifts her hand, beckoning them to her. They rush her way and clamber over me to rub their snouts on her hand, licking it.

“Besides, it’s been a while since I slept on the right side of the bed. I like to mix it up, which side I sleep on. Lately, I’ve been on a left side streak. The left side of the bed has a very specific kind of energy, know what I mean?” A soft laugh huffs out of her. “You’re rambling.” My cheeks heat as I grimace. “I am.”

“Well, then, lucky for you, to have found such an expert cuddler who appreciates the merits of both sides of the mattress.”

“You’re a good one, Viggo Bergman.” She cups my cheek, her thumb sweeping along the line of my beard. “Even if you don’t know how to use a razor.”

Messy blue bun, aviator sunglasses, whistle around her neck. Bright yellow shirt that makes her look like a ray of sunshine. She’s perfect. Here, in this moment. In every part of my life.

“Yes!” Tallulah yells again, running out onto the field toward the kids, who swarm around her, jumping up and down, shrieking, hands high, smiles as wide as the field.

her belly round . . . with Viggo. I touch the glass covering the photo, trace the curve of her stomach. That’s where he began, how he began—from love, so much love.

candid of little-boy Viggo, up in a tree, leaning against its trunk, long legs dangling off the branch he’s sitting on, a book in hand. Tears well in my eyes.

Rooney steps beside me, hand going to the soft swell of her stomach, which I’d bet, based on her otherwise slender frame, is a baby bump, even though I haven’t heard anything from Viggo. I’m not saying a word.

“It’s a lot,” she says, gaze roaming the photos. “To take in.” I glance her way. “Was it for you?” “Oh yeah.” She laughs softly. “I mean, I craved it, their family’s love, their closeness. But it was bittersweet sometimes, a reminder of all I didn’t have.

a close-up of a boy I’m pretty sure is Axel drawing at the dining table, his tongue stuck out in concentration.

realized, to the Bergmans, I already was one of them. That they’d opened their arms and hearts to me, and once they do that, they do it fully, without reservation. I had nothing to prove, no place to earn. Their love, that belonging, it was right there the whole time, waiting for me to see it.”

Frankie, Ren’s wife, stands tall, dark hair swept back in a ponytail, a sleepy baby in one arm, her cane in the other hand. “Lucia!” Rooney coos, opening her arms, taking the baby from her mother.

“We’re missing a few members presently, but welcome to the dysfunctional section of the Bergmans.” “Frankie!” Willa snorts. “What?” Frankie shrugs, holding my eyes. “It’s true. This is what they do, love people who’ve got baggage and hang-ups. The Bergmans are different. We’re different from them, no judgment, just a fact. They don’t see love like we do, with conditions and clauses, end dates and disappointments, and it’s a mindfuck at first. We get it. You’re not alone. If you ever think you are, we’re here.”

“Ba!” Lucia yells. I offer the baby my finger, which she clasps tightly, her wide green eyes locked on me. I look at her, because it’s easiest to confess this to a tiny person with no judgment, no expectations. Just curiosity and innocence.

He’s so beautiful. Soft, tender smile. Suntanned skin. Those tiny creases at the corners of his ice-blue eyes. His beard looks extra full tonight, which would normally frustrate me, but I’m attached to the familiarity of it now. I think he looks handsome, but I still want to tug it flat and see his jaw, his mouth, kiss every inch of it.

Happiness hums through me at the sight of him.

I stare at him as my mouth falls open. His beard is . . . almost gone. Shaved to a tight shadow along his jaw. I can’t even process how beautiful his face is, revealed more fully, the faint hollows in his cheeks, the sharp, lovely line of his jaw. That lush, soft mouth.

He’s so handsome, it hurts.

“Figured the brides deserved not to have a Bigfoot impersonator as their celebrant, front and center in the wedding photos.

I love you.