“Message received, Mrs. Wheeler.” I bend and scoop her into my arms, with more dramatic flair than necessary.
She doesn’t protest. She just curls closer—trusting the catch. But her squeal of surprise and grin are exactly why I did it.
Because I want to spend the whole rest of my life making her feel safe, so she never has to shrink to feel like she belongs again. I want to keep teaching her that, despite all the bad that can happen, good still waits on the other side.
She never had to earn her place here—not in this house, in this family, or with me. All she ever needs to be is Chloe, and to be chosen, even when things are uncertain.
The way she’s always chosen me.
I dip to open our door, earning another playful squeal as our center of balance shifts, then step across the threshold, knowing that this time, it truly is forever.
“I love you,” she whispers.
And when I tell her, “I love you, too,” it occurs to me that even though we had love this whole time, we had to become the people who were brave enough to embrace it.
To choose it.
And fight for it.
Because happily-ever-after isn’t something you tie up in a pretty bow—it’s something you work for, every day.
epilogue
CHLOE
VALENTINE’S WEEK,SIX WEEKS LATER
“Love looks good on you.”
Phoebe bursts into laughter. I’m not sure if all eight-year-olds have such cheesy senses of humor, but we encourage it more than we discourage it. Especially when she’s got Aiden and Owen around twenty-four seven to encourage it.
“It’s true, it looks incredible. It gives you a lovely glow,” Aiden murmurs as he wraps his arms around my waist. He presses an exaggerated kiss to my cheek. Usually, this makes Phoebe topple over in hysterics.
She just looks confused.
“What’s going on, bug?” I ask.
“Why does love have a face?” she asks, squinting at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Aiden and I both glance at each other.
“Well, in a literal sense, itdoesn’t,” I tell her, my brain scrambling to put it in words she’ll understand. “It just meansthat when someone is loved, you can see it. They might stand taller or smile bigger.”
She leans forward on her stool and studies me. “Dad’s right. I can see it. Your cheeks are even pinker.”
Probably because the kitchen feels like I’ve climbed into a furnace, but I don’t say anything.
“Phoebe, if we don’t cut these cookies,someoneis going to eat all this before they even make it into the oven.” I smack Aiden’s hand with a wooden spoon as he reaches for another pinch of dough.
“You made my second favorite dough,” he whispers into my ear. “What am I supposed to do?” Shivers dance along my spine as his breath tickles my neck.
“You’re supposed to show our daughter what self-control looks like.” I sigh. “There’s an entire bowl of your mom's sugar cookie dough in the fridge.”
It took everything I had not to laugh as my grown husband leaned around me just enough to pout, his lower lip sticking out dramatically. I ran my hand across his jawline, feeling his dark beard, then I softly patted his cheek.
“In the fridge.”
“Fine.” He straightened and circled the island to tickle Phoebe, and my heart swelled as her laughter bounced off the walls.
