The Boss and His Cowgirl(64)
Her expression morphed into one of confusion so he quoted the words back to her. “I’ll tell ya what’s wrong with the government. It’s politicians. We got too many of ’em. We don’t need any more of them durn politicians. What we need is more legislators. Folks who understand why they’ve got them fancy desks up there in the Capitol. We need smart folks workin’ for the people. Not the people working for all them politicians. Remember now?”
At her nod, he continued. “You’re right. I don’t want to be a politician. I want to be a legislator. I can’t do that as president. I can by staying in the Senate. So that’s what I’m doing—staying in the Senate.”
His thumb brushed the tear trickling down her cheek before he kissed her. “I love you, Georgie Dreyfus, with everything I have. With everything I am. I want to make you proud.”
“You do. Every day of my life, Clayton Barron. You do.”
* * *
Georgie was coming home today. Clay could barely contain himself. He hated hospitals. Hated the sounds and the smells and sadness that permeated the very air. He waited outside her room while a nurse performed a final check of Georgie’s vitals and changed bandages. He’d already participated in that routine, and had been schooled in all things aftercare.
Finished, the nurse slipped out, offering him a smile and an arm squeeze as she passed. “Take care of our girl,” she murmured.
“Always.”
He walked into the room. Georgie couldn’t get dressed until the final consult with the surgeon. Jolie had packed clothes for her, but Clay had his own ideas. He set the box he’d brought in her lap as he bent to kiss her.
“Can’t wait to have you home, sweet pea.”
Georgie stared at the box before raising her eyes to his.
“Open it, love.”
Her fingers trembled, rustling the tissue paper filling the gold-foil box. Her throat worked, contracting as she swallowed. Her gaze barely lingered after colliding with his.
Clay attempted to speak, but the words came out mangled, his voice a rusty saw on metal pipe. He cleared his throat, spoke again. “Georgie? What’s wrong?” His insides twisted as he second-guessed the gift. Maybe it was too soon. Or too much. Or maybe he was the world’s biggest idiot. “Sweet pea?”
Her fingers again fussed with the tissue, her shoulders slumping as her chin tucked against her chest. “Why did you buy this?”
Her question was whispered from between chapped lips, and he was torn between kissing her or passing her the water glass with the bent straw. “Because I wanted you to have it.”
“But it’s red lingerie.” She looked up, her eyes holding some emotion he wasn’t sure he wanted to identify.
“You were wearing red lingerie in my bathroom in Scottsdale. And you wore red lingerie the first time we made love.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “Red is your color.”
Her tears caught Clay by surprise. He settled next to her on the hospital bed, gathering her close. Brushing them away with a gentle swipe of his thumb, he kissed her forehead. “You’re beautiful, Georgie, and I love seeing you in sexy lingerie.”
She pushed against him ineffectually and the scarf on her bald head slipped off. “No, I’m not. I’m not beautiful. I’m not sexy.”
“Look at me, sweet pea. You will always be beautiful to me because I love you.”
“Even sick?” She flicked a hand toward her bandaged chest. “Even without these?”
“You’re alive. That’s all that matters.” He kissed her then, deep and sweet, to prove his point. That she was alive and that he loved her. Always.
Epilogue
Georgie floated down the gentle slope on her father’s arm. Clay waited for her at the base of the golden path across the placid lake that led to the setting sun. His family waited with him—his cousin Boone and his brothers Cord, Chance, Chase and Cash. His nephew CJ, clutching a satin pillow with their wedding bands tied to it, stood on his right. Opposite them, her best friend and maid of honor, Jen, and her soon-to-be sisters Cassie and Jolie smiled at her.
Clay’s father was notably absent. Her mother was notably not, standing on the left in her designer mother-of-the-bride dress. Ev and her husband were there, as were other friends, including Miriam Davis, the reporter from the Washington Post. The Tate brothers surrounded their mother. Deacon Tate stood at the back of the congregation, strumming an acoustic guitar, the song soft and romantic and perfect.
Clay stepped forward to meet her, accepted her hand when her father took it from the crook of his arm as he kissed her cheek. “I love you, baby,” her dad murmured. “Take care of my little girl, Clayton.”