The Muse Read online

  “It’s probably cold now.”

  He grins. “I have a microwave.”

  I wince as I meet his eyes. “You don’t hate me?”

  “Not even remotely.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll, uh, go get the food.” I turn away, but his voice stops me.

  “Iris? You realize I heard you, right? The bit where you said you’re in love with me again?”

  Heart hammering, I face him. No more running. I meet his gaze, sober and soft now.

  “Of course I love you, Beckett. I’ve always been in love with you, and I probably always will be.”

  His smile blooms like a sunrise, slow and dazzling. He nods toward my car. “Go on, then, before I catch pneumonia.”

  My brows skyrocket. “You’re not going to say it back?”

  James chuckles, infinitely pleased with himself. “I will, just not right this second.” He glances at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “You have to wait, oh, give or take forty-five minutes. Long enough for my balls to thaw.”

  “Wow,” I deadpan.

  He winks.

  Forty-five minutes later, we’ve eaten and opened a bottle of wine, and he still hasn’t told me he loves me. Of course, James is visibly tickled by my growing disgruntlement and makes me sweat it out for another fifteen minutes.

  Then he says, “I want to show you something.” Rufus and I follow him to the study, where he points to a large cardboard box sitting on the floor next to his desk. “Take a look inside.”

  Curious and not a little confused, I lower to my knees and open the top flaps. At first, I don’t know what I’m looking at. All I see is my name in sloping white text emblazoned on satiny black.

  Six of my names.

  On six identical covers of identical books.

  His name, in a more subdued font, is beneath the title.

  The title.

  “You wrote a book of poetry about me,” I whisper. “This is the book you were talking about at the signing.”

  “Ask me when I wrote the first poem.”

  Blinking tears from my eyes, I turn. “When?”

  “Six years ago, when Richard first told me about his daughter.”

  I stand up. “And the last?”

  “There will never be a last, little muse. You have my heart, my soul, and whatever afterlife waits for me. You are the first and the last. I need you, and I will never choose poetry over you. You are my poetry. I love—”

  I swallow the rest of his words with a kiss.

  Epilogue

  JAMES

  Scotland is bloody cold. Yes, I realize how ridiculous that sounds coming from a native Brit, but holy hell, the first Pict who set down his spear in this Godforsaken land and called it home must have had the worst sense of direction born to man. Either that, or he was a dolt.

  And clearly so am I for subjecting myself to my third—and final, damnit!—winter in Edinburgh. Thankfully, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and the name of that light is tenure at Stanford University in California. You know, where the sun shines and my balls don’t crawl up to my throat every time I step outside?

  I can’t fucking wait.

  “Such a baby,” coos the object of my endless obsession and the reason I’m here to begin with.

  A long strand of pale hair falls over my shoulder. I give it a little tug until she presents her cheek for me to kiss.

  “I told you that you’re not allowed to read my journals until they’re at least a year old.”

  “Because you think that given enough time, I won’t be offended by the shit you write. And I’ve reminded you on several occasions that your reasoning is bullshit. I’m still pissed about the Maldives incident.”

  I rock back in my desk chair, tilting my head to see her face. She’s got the stern expression down pat, but I’ve always been able to see right through her. There’s amusement in her selkie-dark eyes.

  Playing along, I offer my most innocent mien for her viewing pleasure. “For the thousandth time, pet, when you asked me to pack your mac, I thought you meant a raincoat. Despite what I said in my journal, I assure you it was only after the fact that I realized you meant your computer. Where I’m from, macs are waterproof jackets.”

  Iris knows I’m lying, of course, and her lips do a precious little dance as she tries not to smile.

  “Such a prick.”

  I snatch her hand and bring it to my lips. “Your prick, love.”

  And I am. I’m hers with every fiber of my being, every molecule of my earthly flesh, and every fleck of stardust in my immortal soul.

  I trail kisses up her wrist, reveling in the pulse that flutters and speeds beneath my mouth.

  “I have to get to my seminar, James.”

  “Fuck the seminar,” I murmur, snaking a hand around her hip. She slaps my fingers away before I reach her ass.

  I’m not giving up yet.

  “You could skip every remaining class and they’d still fall over themselves to give you a PhD. You’re an internationally bestselling author with several prestigious awards under your belt. Stay home.”

  Rufus whines in agreement from his cozy spot before the crackling fireplace. Atta boy!

  “I feel fat today.”

  I’m so used to the abrupt mental shifts by now that it only takes a few seconds for me to change gears. Abandoning my physical need for her and ignoring the angry customer in my pants, I kiss her hand a final time.

  Meeting her eyes, I take the gift of her vulnerability and give her the only thing I can right now. Words.

  “Little muse, you’re a beautiful fucking butterfly, remember?”

  She groans. “I’m not a butterfly, I’m a flying rodent. And I’m not little—I’m a house!”

  I can almost feel the quicksand rising around my ankles. But I’m armed for battle. I’ve got this. I’ve got her.

  “Iris Mae Elliot, you are the most ravishing woman in the world. And you’re growing the greatest writer in generations in your luscious belly.”

  She gives me a tentative smile and rubs her palms over her huge stomach. And I won’t lie—it’s bloody massive. I’ve managed to keep to myself how proud I am of that fact. I’ll let her read it a year from now, when her head’s back on straight.

  On second thought, maybe I’ll hide that particular journal for a decade or three.

  Not privy to my thoughts, my lovely wife beams happily at me. “What about the other one?”

  I was wondering if she’d catch my omission. Of course she did. She’s Iris Eliot. The most brilliant woman in the world, pregnancy-brain notwithstanding.

  “Hmm, number two is a bit more of a wildcard. They’ll be an artist or dancer, or maybe an astrophysicist.”

  She sighs in bliss. “Thank you. I feel better now.”

  Since her belly is taking up most of my vision, I give each of the twins a kiss.

  Iris giggles. “You just kissed their feet and butt respectively.”

  I look up at the love of my life. “If they’re anything like you, I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you foremost to the brave men and women who have touched my life with their courage, their perseverance, and their honesty. For L, who taught me that you can find laughter even in the midst of struggle.

  To my beta readers, I’d be lost without you! Steph, this one is for you. For Donnie, who’s banking on me for early retirement. For Stella, who doesn’t yet know what mommy does on the computer and won’t know for a while yet (at least another sixteen years), but who I hope will one day be proud to say her mother is a writer.

  For my father, who passed away in March of 2017. Thanks to him, my childhood was never short on books. And thank you, always, to my mother, who blushes when she reads my novels but tells all her friends to buy them anyway.

  To you, the reader—the life of an indie author isn’t glamorous. We need you. I need you. So thank you, thank you, thank you, for taking a risk and giving me a chance. I
wrote a book I wanted to read, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

  And finally, if you or someone you love has been a victim of sexual assault, please, please pick up the phone. You don’t have to feel brave to be brave.

  National Sexual Assault Hotline

  1-800-656-4673

  RAINN

  www.rainn.org

  About the Author

  L.M. Halloran is a contemporary romance writer from San Diego, California. When not writing or reading, she enjoys a brain-bending day job, walking barefoot, subjecting her husband to questionable recipes, and chasing her spirited toddler. She's a rabid fan of coffee, moongazing, and small dogs that resemble Ewoks.

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  Also by L.M. Halloran

  The Reluctant Socialite

  Breaking Giants