Chapter 303

Chapter 303
Rosalind

Five years. Five years since that magical night at the Four Seasons when Beckett announced Phoenix Architecture and Everett made me CEO of Montgomery Industries. Five years since we thought our biggest challenge would be balancing two companies and a marriage.

We had no idea what was coming.

"Mama! Mama! Daddy made ice cream!"

The sound of tiny feet thundering across hardwood floors announced the arrival of our three-year-old hurricane, Linda Montgomery. She burst into my home office like a pint-sized tornado, her dark curls bouncing and her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Did he now?" I said, closing my laptop and scooping her onto my lap. "And what kind of ice cream did Daddy make?"

"Strawberry! With real strawberries! And he let me help!" She wiggled with pride, her little hands sticky with what I could only assume was evidence of her "help."

Through the doorway, I could see into our kitchen where my husband—the former underground king, the man who once commanded respect through fear—stood wearing an apron covered in flour and what looked like strawberry puree. He was carefully portioning homemade ice cream into small bowls, his movements precise and practiced.

It still amazed me sometimes, this transformation. Marco now ran all of Beckett's former Mediterranean operations, sending monthly reports that Beckett barely glanced at. The man who once controlled shipping routes and commanded loyalty through carefully orchestrated intimidation was now completely absorbed in perfecting toddler-friendly recipes and child-proofing our home.

"Come on, little monkey," I said, carrying Linda toward the kitchen. "Let's go see what Daddy's created today."

The kitchen looked like a battlefield. Flour dusted every surface, strawberry stains decorated the counters, and what appeared to be an entire container of sprinkles had somehow migrated to the floor. In the center of this chaos stood my husband, looking absolutely content.

"How was the board meeting?" Beckett asked, kissing my cheek as he handed me a bowl of the most perfectly crafted strawberry ice cream I'd ever seen.

"Productive. We secured the Portland contract and the environmental certification for the new sustainable housing project." I took a bite and closed my eyes in bliss. "God, this is incredible. How do you make everything taste like it came from a five-star restaurant?"

"Years of practice," he said smugly, then turned to Linda. "And what do you say we give Mommy some of the ice cream we made special for her?"

I watched in horror as he loaded a toddler-sized spoon with what looked like enough ice cream to feed a small army.

"Beckett Montgomery, don't you dare," I said sternly. "She's three years old. That's way too much sugar for one sitting. She'll turn into a little sugar-crazed monster, and then she'll crash and be cranky all evening."

"But Mama," Linda protested, her lower lip beginning to tremble, "Daddy said I could have lots because I was a good helper!"

"You were an excellent helper," I said gently, "but too much sugar isn't good for little girls. It'll make you sick."

Linda's face scrunched up in that particular way that meant we were about to have a meltdown. "Bad Mama! Mean Mama! You don't want me to have ice cream because you're MEAN!"

She raised her tiny hand as if to hit me, and I had to bite back a laugh at the fierce expression on her cherubic face.

"Hey now," Beckett said, smoothly intercepting her hand and pulling her close. "We don't hit Mama, remember? That's not how we solve problems."

"But she's being mean about the ice cream!" Linda wailed, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

Beckett looked at her seriously, then at me, then back at her. "You know what? You're right. Mama is being very unreasonable about the ice cream situation."

I shot him a warning look, which he ignored with the practiced ease of a man who'd spent three years perfecting the art of toddler diplomacy.

"Tell you what," he said conspiratorially to Linda, "how about I hit Mama for you? Just a little bit. Would that make you feel better?"

Linda nodded eagerly, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

Beckett very gently tapped my arm with one finger. "There. I got her for you."

I played along, gasping dramatically and clutching my arm. "Oh no! That hurt so much! I'm so sorry about the ice cream, Linda! Daddy got me so good!"

Linda giggled, instantly mollified by this ridiculous display. "Daddy saved me from mean Mama!"

"He certainly did," I said, ruffling her hair. "Now, how about we have just a little bit of ice cream, and then we can have some more after dinner?"

"Okay, Mama. But Daddy hits better than me."

"He's had more practice," I said solemnly, catching Beckett's eye over Linda's head. He winked at me, and I had to resist the urge to kiss him right there.