“Exactly. Laughing pizza that never runs out. Even if Mama and I give some to your brother, there will still be enough. You will always be my boy. And you’ll always be Mama’s boy. Our hearts just get bigger, that’s all.”
“Promise?” Leo’s voice was so small.
“Swear on my life.”
Leo lurched forward, his stool wobbling as his hand shot out, nearly toppling the mug on the counter. Dom caught him before he slipped, lifting him onto the island and pulling him close. One steady hand cradled the back of his head while he buried his face against his father’s neck, his small body shaking with relieved sobs.
I pressed my hand to my mouth, tears blurring my vision. This man—who’d been so hurt when I met him—had become the father I’d always dreamed of for my children. Patient, present, unafraid of their big emotions.
When Leo’s tears finally quieted, Dom pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Want to help me make lunch for Mama?”
Leo nodded eagerly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Can we make pizza?”
“Whatever you want.”
I slipped back down the hallway before they could spot me, my heart full to bursting. Some days, I still couldn’t believe this was my life—this cozy holiday cabin we escaped to when the quiet called, this boy who clung to me so fiercely, this man who looked at me like I was the miracle of his life. I’d spent years aching for love, begging to be seen. Now I didn’t have to ask. Now it was given freely, wholly, and it was mine.
Later that night, as I watched Dom step out of the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, that feeling of overwhelming love grew into fire. Water trailed from his damp hair down his shoulders, catching the dim light of the bedside lamp.
I squirmed beneath the sheets, my swollen belly making any position impossible.
His gaze landed on me. “You’re still awake.”
Like I could sleep when my body’s burning up like this.My fingers traced the curve of my stomach. “Someone’s throwing a revolt in here.”
He crossed the room in a few strides, dropping to his knees beside the bed. His rough palm settled over mine, heat seeping into my skin. A sharp kick beneath his touch made the corner of his mouth twitch—that ghost of a smile he never quite gave away.
“Feisty little thing.”
“Takes after you.”
His thumb rubbed my belly, calming the restless flutter.
“Did you call your father?” I asked, hesitant.
Dom’s palm paused briefly before continuing its gentle motion. “No.”
I caught his fingers, lacing mine through his. “Are you okay?”
His jaw tightened. Jack Rutherford had called and left a Christmas message.
“He grieves how he grieves. I get that now.” His voice was quiet, raw. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
I squeezed his hand.
Dom let out a sharp breath, then bent low, pressing his lips to my belly. “We should head back to Weston Bay soon.”
“Not this again.” I groaned.
“You’re due in eight weeks.” His fingers tensed against my skin. “I don’t like being this far from the hospital.”
“You’ve told me that.”
“And you’ve ignored me every time.”
I touched his hand, looking at his blue eyes burning with that familiar protectiveness. My gaze traced his thick neck, the sharp lines of his abs, and the way they flexed as he moved. Five years hadn’t softened him; if anything, he was harder now, more defined. His skin still carried that same golden tint, even in winter, and the dark trail of hair leading south made my mouth water.
I shifted; the damp heat between my thighs was impossible to ignore.
