And he liked that.

So he showed her too.

While she was taking his, he took hers.

And with that—as they did and as they’d continue to do—together, Cher Rivers and Garrett Merrick successfully weathered yet another storm.

Epilogue

Such a Girl

Feb

May

I walked into the living room to see my son tossing treats to my cat, my husband with him, holding back our dog by his collar.

Seeing this and it annoying me, I planted my hands on my hips, asking, “Are you serious?”

My husband’s eyes came to me.

They grew dark as they dropped to my dress and his face assumed an expression I felt in my womb.

My son’s eyes also came to me.

Since we had somewhere to go, I decided to focus on Jack.

“What, Momma?” Jack asked.

“Baby boy, the vet said Wilson’s too fat,” I told him, resuming walking into the living room so I could get to my purse in the kitchen.

“Daddy says the only eggerzize Wilson gets is runnin’ ’round for kitty treats,” Jack replied.

I glared at Colt as I walked by him, and I did this mostly because he hadn’t lied to our kid—Wilson was lazy as hell—so I had no retort.

For his part, Colt grinned at me as I walked by him.

Years he’d had to become impervious to my glare.

That was annoying too.

I hit the kitchen, asking Colt, “How many have you given him?”

“Three,” Colt lied.

“Eelehben,” Jack told the truth.

I again glared at Colt, who had followed me into the kitchen.

“We need to get goin’,” he stated. “Not have our three thousandth argument about Wilson’s cat treats.”

Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.

“Scout taken care of?” I asked about our dog, who had likely gotten his treats earlier but forgotten that had happened, which was why he was now skulking into the kitchen, straight to his bowls.

I took my clutch from under my arm so I could transfer stuff from my purse, which was lying on the kitchen counter, into it as Colt answered, “Yep,” while fitting himself to my back. He then bent in to kiss my bare shoulder before murmuring in my ear, “Like this dress, baby.”

I lost some of my annoyance, feeling my husband’s heat. I lost more at the touch of his lips. I lost more at his words.

I lost it all when I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye.

I loved silver. Because I did, I wore a lot of it.

And every day, no matter when I got home—if it was eight at night or three in the morning—I took my silver off at our kitchen counter.

I dropped it in a pile wherever it hit.

The next time I saw it, I’d see that my husband had organized it. Bangles in a bundle. Rings lined up. Chains straightened. Earrings stacked, one on top of the other.

Sometimes I saw him do it, so I knew it wasn’t about him keeping it neat.