The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

Mum turned to look at me.

“I don’t hate her, Devvie,” she said with a good portion of resignation.

“Wish I could say the same about you, Mrs. Whitehall.” Belle’s voice caught her attention, and their gazes locked. “But you hurt the love of my life, and we have an open beef to settle.”

“We will.” Mum nodded curtly, moving in our direction almost gingerly. “First, can I touch your belly? It is oh-so-full of baby. And looking at both of you, I just know the child will be gorgeous.”

“You can cop a feel, Mrs. W,” Sweven warned, “but that doesn’t mean you’re off of my shit list.”

Good god, I loved that woman.

My mother put her hands on Belle’s belly and grinned up at her. “She’s kicking.”

“How do you know it’s a she?” I asked.

“A woman knows.” She pulled away, smiling at us enigmatically.

There was nothing more to say really. This wasn’t a part of a reconciliation or an olive branch. It was a quiet, dignified goodbye. A goodbye that should have happened two decades ago.

My mother gathered my hands in hers, and I let her. One last time.

“I just want you to know, I do love you, Devon. In my own roundabout way.”

I believed her.

But sometimes, a bit of love was simply not enough.





“How come most airlines don’t have first-class seats anymore?” Emmabelle pouted next to me on the flight back home later that evening. She was munching on dried fruit.

I flipped a page in the Wall Street Journal, taking a sip of my virgin Bloody Mary, possibly the only virgin I had ever consumed. I would have gone for whiskey, but Belle was the kind of woman who insisted I sympathize with her by staying sober.

“There was hardly any difference between first and business class to begin with. Add to that the fact that business-class seats by definition count as a work expense, and you’ll get why most western airlines don’t want to be bothered. Why are you asking?” I glanced her way.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looking left and right.

“There’s not enough leg room.”

I tapped my lap, folding the paper and tucking it under my arm. “Put your feet on me. Problem solved.”

“No, not for that. Oh shit. Fuck. I mean … this is bullshit,” she scoffed, rubbing at her forehead.

“Please continue.” I sat back. “I love it when you whisper sweet nothings to me.”

But she didn’t. She waited until we were exactly at the halfway point between the United Kingdom and the United States. Beneath us, there was nothing but the giant, deep expanse of the Atlantic. All that kept us in the air was a tiny metal tube and faith. And suddenly, I realized exactly the analogy she was trying to make.

That marriage was about giving and taking.

About making concessions and meeting each other halfway.

“Okay. Don’t hate me if I screw it up. Or if I can’t get up or anything. This baby is messing with my center of gravity.” Belle plucked a square velvet thing from her purse and stood up, before crouching to one knee and groaning in annoyance.

I sat up straight, every bone in my body screaming at me to pay attention.

Everyone in business class turned their sleepy gazes in our direction.

“Devon Whitehall, you’re the best man I’ve ever met by leaps and bounds. I have been in love with you from the first moment our gazes met. I want to grow old with you, to be with you through thick and thin, to have your last name. I know I’ve been … difficult the past few months, but I promise I’m a changed woman. Please, would you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”

“Yes.”

There was more to be said.

But for now, this one word seemed to sum it up.

People clapped from the seats beside us. One woman took a picture of the whole thing on her phone. But somehow I couldn’t care less if we wound up being on the cover of a tabloid.

“Oh, Dev.” Belle covered her mouth with her hands, tears welling in her eyes. “This is awesome. Now can you please help me up?”





“Did you know that when a male and female anglerfish mate, they melt into each other and share bodies forever? When the anglerfish bloke finds a willing participant, he latches and fuses with her. He loses his eyes and a load of his internal organs until they share a bloodstream.” Devon strokes my hand lovingly, peering at me from his seat by my hospital bed.

“Wow,” I say dryly, holding my breath to stop the pain. “Sounds familiar.”

I turn to Nurse Pretending She’s Not There, who beams at both of us like she’s just given birth, popping my chart back onto the edge of my bed. “I just felt another contraction, and this one was baaaaaad.”

So bad I thought my stomach was about to rip in two.

“When’s Doctor Bjorn coming?” Devon demanded, spurring into action. “My wife is in pain.”

“Your wife is not the first woman ever to give birth,” Nurse About to Get Punched notes mildly. She moves to re-fluff the pillows behind me. “Two different doctors came in for a checkup and said everything is perfectly fine. Doctor Bjorn is dealing with some light traffic. He’ll be here in a few minutes. You can always opt for an epidural.” She peers down at me, shrugging.