When I see the soft swell of her pregnant belly, I don’t even know how to process it.
“Tate?” My eyes flick up to hers and then back down to her tiny baby bump.
My hands go to the back of my neck.
My lips open and then close.
My heart . . . my goddamn heart explodes in my chest in the best possible way imaginable.
“I—Tate—what—how—Tate?”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers as her hands come up to frame my face. As her lips kiss the tears on my own cheeks. As they find mine.
And in that instant, I am home.
I am whole.
I am complete.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.” A kiss. “And then I didn’t know what to tell you.” Another kiss. “And then I didn’t want to burden you with taking care of something I didn’t know if you even wanted. We never talked about—this—”
“Tate.” I lean her shoulders back so I can look at her, the woman I love, and the child I already love even though we’ve never met. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“I can explain.” My hand slides over the small bump of her belly as every part of me right down to my bone marrow settles.
“You can explain later.” My lips find hers to tell her I love her and that I plan to make up for lost time. “But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. All that matters is you,” I murmur against her lips. “And this.” I pull her against me again, wrapping my arms around her as I breathe her in. “And the rest of our lives we have to spend together to figure it all out.”
Who knew?
Who knew what I would find when I walked onto this ranch ten months ago?
That I’d find Tate Knox and fall in love with her.
That I’d want to make a life with her.
That we’d get to have a next time together.
That I’d never be able to live without her and her wild.
EPILOGUE
TATE
Five years later . . .
“Are you ready to do this?” I ask as I look across the kitchen.
It looks like a bomb went off. There are mashed potatoes all over the cabinets where Rein lifted the hand mixer too high and splattered them everywhere. The flour I’d portioned aside to thicken the gravy dusts one corner of the floor because I wasn’t paying attention and Tack’s little fingers pulled the measuring cup off the counter.
“Nooooo!” I yelp as I bolt across the kitchen to prevent him from pulling down the whole sack of flour this time. Saved in the nick of time, I push everything as far away as I can from the edges of the counter.
“You, mister!” I say and point the whisk at him, “are trouble with a capital T.”
“Touble wit captl T,” he repeats and then smacks his hands together so whatever flour is left on them flies in the air.
He giggles at the sight of it.
It’s the kind of giggle that would make any mom surrounded by the chaos of preparing Thanksgiving dinner stop and stare. It’s the kind that reminds you that this kind of craziness is good, worth it, because someone like Tack is a part of it.
His belly giggle is music to my ears and I lower myself on my knees to the floor. “Tack.”
“Yes, Momma,” he says, those eyes and dimples of his that match his daddy’s win me over in much the same way.
“I love you.”
“Kisses!” my two-year-old shouts, and in keeping with our typical routine, he runs full force into my arms for love.
After my cheek is covered in slobbery, little boy kisses, I squeeze him tight a little longer than usual. I relish the moment in a way I never thought I’d get the chance to. I take the second to adore my second child before my first catches sight, gets jealous, and demands twice as much attention in turn.
But the usual doesn’t play out because Rein squeals in excitement at the exact same time the front door opens, sending a gust of snowflakes into the hallway.
“Smells good!” Jack says, and even amid all the other voices that follow suit, his is the one that still causes butterflies in my stomach. His is the one that still puts that automatic smile on my lips.
“It’s utter chaos in here,” I call out as I wipe my hands on a dishtowel, “but that’s what you get when you let a two- and four-year-old help.”
I turn the corner and stop in my tracks.
It’s a simple sight that I’m certain is unfolding all over the United States of America tonight. My friends and family all just walked in, chattering away as they take off their coats and readying themselves for the good, the bad, and the ugly of family time during the holidays.
Click.
There is something about this snapshot of a picture that awes me.
Because it’s mine.
“Hey.” Jack’s hands slide around my waist and pull me into him for a soft kiss. “Dinner smells good. You smell better.” His hand squeezes my ass, and my eyes flash up to his. “I know a way we can work off those calories later,” he murmurs with a suggestive lift of his eyebrows.
“I’m sure you do.” I bat his hands away as if they annoy me when they do anything but.
Tack’s squeals fill the air as he sees Will, his favorite of the group.
“If it’s not my favorite squirt, Bridle,” Will says, carrying on the running joke of our family and friends over our kids’ names.
“Nope!” Tack yells.
“Oh, you’re right. I forgot. It’s Hoof. Nice to meet you, Hoof.” Will holds out his hand to shake Tack’s and receives a belly giggle in response.
“No way.”
“Hmm. Let me think. Horseshoe?”
Another giggle. “It’s Tack!” he shouts before Will picks him up and spins him around.
Rein runs into the room with a flying leap, her bouncy curls flying and new dress whirling around her as she waits for someone to take notice of her sparkly shoes.
“Fi will notice first,” Jack says.
“Oh my god!” Fi says as if on cue and moves to hug our little drama queen.
“It’ll be weird without Sylvester,” Jack says quietly.
I nod, my chest constricting at the thought and knowing it’s weird for him without Lauren here too.
But Jack and Lauren’s relationship beats to its own drum as Jack controls the tempo. This year, he chose to forgo inviting her, but it was his choice, so I didn’t push.
“Who’s hungry?” I ask about the fray and get a raucous response in return.
“Alcohol. If we’re going to eat your cooking, dear, we need alcohol first,” Fi says before enveloping me in the biggest hug. “God, it’s good to see you,” she says into my ear. “And just wait till I tell you about the guy who got my number on the flight.”
JACK
CHATTER FILLS THE HOUSE.
Laughter rings out more often than not, dotted with a few shouts of, “That’s not fairs” from Rein over something Tack did to annoy her. They’re so much like Lauren and I were together as kids it’s scary.
Plates are empty or getting close to it. Glasses of wine have been refilled more times than not.
Tate’s at my side, chatting away. Her curves are softer now, her smile wider, and the caution that used to own her eyes has been gone for years.