Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Reagan catches his arrival and launches off her barstool like a missile. “Daddy! Look! I made you a note!”
He grins down at her before leaning over to scoop her up in one arm and spin her around. “Let me see this note.” He tickles her side, and she shrieks with laughter. He makes a big show of examining her Post-it note, forehead wrinkled, then announces, “Are those my meatballs?”
“Your balls are rounder than Mommy’s,” Reagan tells him. “Can you make spaghetti and meatballs for dinner tomorrow?”
“Anything for you, princess.” He sets her on her feet and turns to me.
“It looks like I’ll be cooking tomorrow.” He laughs and hugs me close to his muscular body.
“Your balls are rounder.” I barely hold in my laughter as I melt against him.
Rogan winks down at me. “And don’t you forget it.” His voice is extra deep, but his eyes are pure mischief.
Jesus. Five years and his touch still sends electricity shooting straight up my spine.
“You know I love you, right?” He says it low, only for me, lips grazing the sensitive spot right under my ear.
“I love you, too, boss man.” I settle back against him. He wraps his arms around me, all muscle and heat, and buries his face in my curls. I’m not exaggerating when I say every inch of me turns to goo.
Sometimes I flash back to that first day, pulling up to the ranch with my entire life shoved into a cracked laundry basket, thinking my best-case scenario was six months of steady income and a roof over my head. Never in a million years did I think my future would turn out this sweet.
If you’d asked me five years ago where I thought I’d end up, “here” wouldn’t have even made the top twenty. But here I am, standing in a kitchen that smells like vanilla and cinnamon. A kitchen that blooms with sticky notes on every flat surface. A fridge plastered in crayon masterpieces and glue-crusted crafts that make me weirdly emotional every time I see them. And then there’s the four-year-old, champion of my whole heart, currently demanding spaghetti and round meatballs with the conviction of a tiny dictator.
I wouldn’t change a single thing. Not one.
I never believed in happily-ever-after until Rogan. Now? I live it every freaking day.
There’s absolutely nothing in the universe that could top this. Life doesn’t get any better than this.