Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 39414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Knowing that I will wake up to her every morning makes it even better.
I lean over her glistening body, my lips latching onto one of her delicate pink nipples. I suck and tug, feeling her heart racing beneath her chest. With a soft kiss, I move up to place a tender kiss on her breastbone.
She is my everything, and not a moment will pass where she doubts my love for her, my desire for her. She deserves all that I can give and more, and I’ll spend the rest of my days proving it to her.
When Ellie finally goes still under me, eyes bright and lips swollen, she cups my face again and kisses me like she’s making a decision with her mouth.
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing hard. “That was your first time–are you okay?”
Ellie’s smile is soft and dangerous. “I’m more than okay. I’m spectacular.”
Later, when the cabin is quiet again and she’s curled against my chest like she belongs there, Ellie reaches for my hand.
My wedding band catches the low light.
She slides it off slowly, then holds it up between two fingers like she’s weighing it.
My body tenses.
Ellie looks at me, eyes steady. “I kept thinking the ring was a shield.”
“It was,” I say.
She shakes her head. “It’s more than that now.”
I don’t speak. I can’t. Not without turning it into something clumsy.
Ellie takes my hand and slides the ring back onto my finger, slow and deliberate.
Then she leans in, lips brushing my ear, voice so quiet it feels like a promise only I get to hear.
“I didn’t answer an ad, Wyatt… I chose you.”
Second Epilogue
Ellie
five years later
Margie Warner doesn’t “babysit.”
Margie claims custody with a smile, a casserole dish, and the kind of authority only a woman who’s lived in Devil’s Peak for seventy years can pull off.
“Shoes,” she sings, crouching to our son’s level. “Where are your shoes, Beau?”
Beau—four years old and already stubborn enough to make Wyatt look like a beginner—plants his hands on his hips. “I don’t need shoes.”
Margie gasps like he’s insulted her bloodline. “Excuse me, young man? You’re coming to my house. My house requires shoes. Even if you’re handsome.”
Wyatt leans against the counter behind me, arms crossed, looking like he’s trying to keep a straight face. Jake sits at his feet, eyes flicking between me and my son.
Beau’s chin lifts. “I’m handsome?”
Margie nods solemnly. “Very. Unfortunately.”
Our daughter, Poppy, two and chaos in pigtails, decides this is the perfect time to sprint down the hall in socks, shrieking like a tiny siren.
“POP!” Beau yells. “WAIT!”
Poppy does not wait. Poppy is a runaway bride in toddler form.
Wyatt pushes off the counter, catching her mid-sprint with one hand around her middle and lifting her like she weighs nothing.
“Where do you think you’re going, trouble?” he murmurs into her neck.
Poppy giggles and grabs his beard with both hands. “Daddy!”
Wyatt’s eyes flick to me, warm and wicked. “She takes after you.”
I snort. “She absolutely does not.”
Wyatt’s mouth tilts. “You ran away to my cabin with a backpack and an attitude.”
I point a finger at him. “I ran away from a banker ex and into a survival plan.”
Wyatt’s eyes darken, slow. “You ran to me.”
My face warms, because five years later, his voice still does that. Still reaches under my ribs and turns everything soft and hot.
Margie claps her hands like she’s closing a deal. “Perfect. While you two flirt like teenagers, I’m taking these babies for the night.”
I glance down at my belly—round, unmistakable, third baby on the way, and apparently my body’s favorite hobby is making little Coopers.
Wyatt’s hand slides around my waist without thinking. His palm settles on the curve of my stomach like it belongs there.
It does.
“Overnight,” I repeat, pretending I don’t already feel my whole body exhale at the thought of uninterrupted sleep and adult conversation.
Margie winks. “Overnight. Because you’re pregnant, and because my town needs more Cooper babies like it needs oxygen.”
Wyatt’s low laugh rumbles. “Jesus, Margie.”
Margie points at him. “Watch your mouth. You’re a father.”
Wyatt’s gaze flicks to my belly. His voice drops. “And I’m good at it.”
My breath catches. It always does, when he says something like that like it’s fact.
Margie herds Beau toward the door with the energy of a general. Beau tries to backpedal.
“Mom?” he asks, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you smiling?”
I blink. “I’m not.”
Wyatt’s hand tightens at my waist. “She’s smiling.”
Beau narrows his eyes. “Dad, you’re smiling too.”
Wyatt’s eyebrows lift. “No, I’m not.”
Beau stares at him for a beat, then nods like he’s filing that away for blackmail later. “Okay.”
Poppy squeals and reaches for me, and I take her, kissing her warm cheek until she squishes her face against mine with sticky affection.
“I love you,” I whisper.
Poppy pats my cheek like I’m the child. “Love you, Mommy.”
Beau gives me a quick hug like it’s a business transaction. “Bye.”