Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
After we break apart, he takes my hand and leads me over to his parents, the first in the small crowd gathered to congratulate us. They embrace us all warmly, smiling just as wide as their son once they let us go.
Boone’s mom is a bit more reserved, but her gaze keeps flicking to my belly, and I have a feeling that once the babies are here, she’ll be around a lot more often. Chance’s dad draws me in for a stiff hug, excusing himself immediately after to get another drink from the bar.
We move from person to person while the caterers bring out canapés, the reception kicking off in a blur of laughter, congratulations, and more hugs and kisses from my husbands than I can count.
Eventually, Madison pulls me aside, champagne in her hand and mischief dancing in her gaze. “So, that happened. You married three ridiculously hot men, all of whom adore you. On a mountain. While glowing like a goddess. Maybe I should’ve come out to the cabin and left you to the wolves.”
I laugh. “Maybe, but you didn’t, so I guess we’ll never know.”
“True.” She lets out a deep, pretend sigh and winks at me. “Think maybe you could share the wealth?”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully, watching across the tent as Boone talks with his mother and Chance laughs at something Dillon says. “Sorry, but these ones are all mine.”
Madison chuckles. “That’s fair. But hey, you never know. My husbands might be around here somewhere. You guys don’t have any neighbors, do you?”
“Not as far as I know, but I’ll find out.”
She grins. “Thanks. Can I grab you another water?”
I nod, but as she flits off toward the bar, I take a second to myself just to soak up the moment. As I look around the tent, my gaze snags on the three center points of my universe.
My husbands. My family.
My chest swells with a warmth that has nothing to do with the heaters as I stare at them openly, not at all ashamed. This isn’t the life I expected.
It’s better.
And the best part is that it’s only just beginning.
35
BOONE
By six a.m., the sun is just starting to drag itself over the ridge, and I find Roxie exactly where I suspect she’ll be, in the nursery.
She stands by the dresser, rearranging neatly folded onesies she’s already arranged by color, then by size, then by fabric softness, her own system that terrifies me a little.
“Sweetheart,” I murmur from the doorway, leaning against the frame as I watch her. “If you reorganize those drawers any more, the babies are going to end up filing a complaint.”
“I had to reorganize them.” She doesn’t even look up. “They were a mess, and we’ve only got eight weeks left. At most. Everything needs to be perfect.”
“It was already perfect.”
“No, it wasn’t. Who puts the 0–3-month pajamas with the newborn pajamas? That’s chaos.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “I think you’re nesting.”
“I am not nesting,” she says firmly, then picks up a tiny onesie with bear ears on the chest and melts a little. “Okay. Maybe I am. A little.”
I walk up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder. She sighs and leans back into me, soft and warm, thirty-two weeks pregnant.
“You’ve cleaned out every closet, labeled everything in the pantry, color-coded the spice rack, and reorganized the freezer by type of cuisine and calorie count,” I murmur into her hair. “It’s extremely impressive. Terrifying, but impressive.”
She lets out a quiet burst of laughter. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“It’s not bad, but you also need to rest at some point.”
“I will,” she counters immediately. “At some point. Just not right now.”
For a moment it’s just the two of us in the quiet morning, the sunrise washing the nursery floors in warm gold. There are no sounds of Dillon gaming until midnight and no Chance hammering something out on the deck. I don’t have to worry about ticking something off the endless lists taped around the house like we’re preparing for a tactical operation.
It’s just the two of us. My miracle.
I breathe in the sweet scent of her shampoo, taking in the moment before I let her go. “Come on. Let’s go make breakfast before you start reorganizing the diapers by absorption ratings.”
Her eyes widen like I’ve just given her a fantastic idea, and I groan, shaking my head as I take her hand. “Nope. We’re going. Now.”
She sighs but heads downstairs with me. We take it slow, since she insists she’s “not waddling”, even though she is. Just slightly.
To no one’s surprise, our fridge is already packed with enough frozen meals to feed the entire county, and our house is baby proofed to the extreme. And yet her gaze darts around the kitchen as if there has to be something left to do.