Free A Cunningham Christmas by Ember Casey Page B

than this before , I tell myself. Why am I so afraid of proposing? I’m just asking Lou a question. An important question, but still just a question. And we’re already a family. This is just making it official.
    But my eyes fall to that giant blue stain on the carpet. I’m a wreck. And I’m completely unprepared for this. I want to make this special for Lou, to give her a proposal she can’t refuse, but I’m completely clueless when it comes to this sort of thing.
    But not everyone in this house is clueless , I remind myself. Calder proposed to Lily last year, and they were married this past spring. Somehow that guy convinced someone to marry him. And I know he’s eager for me and Lou to get hitched. He’ll help me, if I ask.
    I can’t believe I’ve reached the point where I’m considering asking Calder for advice. That smug bastard will probably hold it over my head for the rest of my life. But I also know that he has Lou’s best interests at heart, and—though he’d never admit it out loud to me—mine as well. And though it hurts my pride to even consider asking him for help, Lou is more important to me than my ego. I know what I want. And I’ll do anything to get it. All I have to do is man up and ask him.
    But the asking… that’s the hard part, isn’t it?

LOU
     
     
    I might be biased, but I’m pretty sure Ramona is the most beautiful little baby to ever grace this earth.
    Her eyes are huge— huge —and she has the longest lashes. Her cheeks are adorably chubby, but it’s the hair that really gets me—she has so darn much of it, and it’s a gorgeous shade of reddish-gold. It’s the exact color Ward’s was when he was a baby, and even if it darkens as she gets older, just as his did, I don’t think I could have dreamed of a lovelier shade for her. I’m not even upset that Ward won the little bet we had going while I was pregnant—I was convinced that we were having a boy, while Ward was certain it was a girl—because I can’t imagine anything more precious than our daughter. We even named her in honor of Ward’s late mother, Mona Catherine, whose name is tattooed on his arm. Our little girl is perfect—even if, at seven months old, she’s a lot more energetic than either of us expected.
    People warned me that babies sleep a lot, and I was expecting a little peanut that spent most of the day napping. Instead, I have a child who can’t seem to stop wiggling, and who hardly seems to need any sleep at all. I swear, I thought something was wrong with her at first, but the doctor assured me that she was perfectly healthy.
    And honestly? I wouldn’t have her any other way. Even now, when she should be winding down for bed, she’s squirming in my lap. I’m sitting in the rocking chair next to her crib, trying to read to her, and though she’s not paying a bit of attention to the story, I can’t help but smile. I run my hand over her heavenly soft curls and close the book. It’s one of the Christmas stories I loved when I was younger, but it’ll keep for a few more years.
    “Aren’t you tired at all?” I tease her.
    Ramona just coos and sticks her fingers in her mouth. Her little feet kick, and she almost loses one of her yarn socks—my first, and rather sad, attempt at knitting—but I tug it back over her heel. I resist the urge to tickle her, though there’s no sweeter sound in the world than her precious little laugh. I’m supposed to be helping her settle down, not getting her wound up again.
    “Come on now, little goose,” I say, rocking her gently. “It’s time for bed.”
    She squeals and bounces in my arms.
    “No, it’s not time to dance,” I say softly. “It’s time for bed , silly peanut.” I make a goofy face at her, then pull her tiny hand away from her mouth. Her tiny hand closes around my finger, something that never fails to make my heart go pitter-pat in my chest. She stares up at me with those wide, gorgeous eyes and gives a contented gurgle. She’s