Play with the Phantom (Midnight, #2)

by Amanda Richardson

“Ask me again. Officially.” His answering smile? It’s slow and devastating and absolutely knowing. He sets me down on the couch gently, then backs up. My stomach flips when he disappears around the corner of the kitchen, only to return with something behind his back. My nerves are shot, and I feel my eyes begin to water before he even gets close to me. And when he does, he holds a tiny, heart-shaped box in front of me, dropping to one knee. The box is plastic. Glittery pink. With the faintly retro glimmer of something that makes my heart squeeze and a sob escape from my mouth. “Is that a… Polly Pocket?” He grins wider. “Custom-made.” “Maddox.” “I wanted something special. Just for you. Frankie told me this was the best idea I’d ever had.” “You asked Frankie?” He nods. “And Dante. They approve, by the way.” I half laugh, half cry at the audacity of this man. He pops the box open. Inside, nestled in soft velvet, is a ring. A simple gold band with a dark aquamarine stone in the center, carved into the shape of a flower. A… forget-me-not. It’s stunning. Bold and uniquely beautiful. Just like him. Just like us. “I wanted to get you something that reminded me of you. Something unexpected.” His voice drops, and I can hear the tremble under the confidence now. “You’ve changed my entire world, Ari. You made this house my home. You became my home. You made me believe I could be more than what I came from, or where I’ve been. That I could have a future instead of a sentence. That…” ...

Dante is pacing behind me, reading the directions like he’s decoding a bomb. “You’re holding it upside down.” “No, I’m holding it like it deserves to be held. With violence,” I grumble, turning the piece around. Ari snorts and leans back on her hands. “Maybe we should’ve just paid the extra fifty dollars to have them build it.” I glance over my shoulder, and the sight of her—glowing, relaxed, belly full of our kid—makes something tight in my chest loosen all at once. “Absolutely not,” I say. “My son is sleeping in a bed built by my own two hands if it kills me.” Dante grunts. “It might.” Frankie throws a cracker at him. “Let them have this moment. You’re just jealous no one ever asked you to build a crib.”

“You okay?” I ask softly. She nods. “Just tired.” I walk over, kneel in front of her, and rest my forehead gently against her stomach. Her fingers thread through my hair. “I love you,” she murmurs. And then, because I’m me, I glance up with a smirk. “I love you, too. And I can’t wait to fuck more babies into you when you’re ready.” She laughs, breathless and fond. “Jesus, Maddox.” I rise, taking her hand, helping her stand with care. “No,” I say quietly, brushing her hair off her cheek. “Not Jesus. Just me. The man who’s going to spend the rest of his life making sure you know you were never too much. That you were always worth choosing.” She tears up immediately, like usual lately. I press a kiss to her forehead, then her lips. “Now come to bed and take a nap,” I murmur. “Let me spoil the hell out of you.” Because every piece of this—this family, this love, this second chance—I’m holding it with both hands now. And I’ll never let it go.

Maddox and I talk about it sometimes—what kind of parents we’ll be. It usually ends with him tearing up and me pretending not to cry because my hormones are a war crime. But it always comes back to the same thing. He’ll never have to wonder if he’s too much. He’ll never have to tiptoe around his feelings or mold himself into someone else’s version of lovable. He’ll be wild and soft and loud and angry and beautiful, and we’ll love every version of him. We’ll love him when he gets it wrong. When he breaks things. When he forgets to clean his room or fails a test or comes home with a scraped knee and tears in his eyes. We’ll love him when he’s quiet and unsure, when he’s angry at the world, when he’s scared. We’ll love him if the only thing that makes him happy is a toy. We’ll love him because he’s ours. Because he’s made of every brave choice we never thought we’d get to make.