Page 141 of Then You Happened
To the idea that . . . and when she steps back, when I see my flannel shirt unbuttoned, when I see her tank top . . .
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 i
n 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.
