“I’m really proud of us.”
EPILOGUE
GINA
The smell of melting butter with a hint of syrup tickles my nose.
Yawning, I blink several times, trying to push away the last vestiges of sleep.
It’s increasing difficult to drag myself out of bed every morning. Especially with the nights being so long during deep winter. That’s to say nothing about the bun, currently baking in my oven.
But the smell of butter and syrup cooking in another oven—or maybe on a griddle—is enough to inspire my legs to swing off the bed.
With another yawn, I slide slippers onto my feet and wrap a thick bathrobe around my body. I don’t remember being this tired during my last pregnancy.
Then again, I had been in my twenties. Being pregnant in your thirties… is not for the faint of heart.
And to think, I’d nearly slugged my doctor for referring to it as a geriatric pregnancy. There may be something to it after all.
As I pad my way down the hall, the faint sound of voices grows stronger. So does the smell of something delicious cooking in the kitchen.
When I appear at the threshold, I’m given pause by the site of Scottie seated on a stool in front of the kitchen counter, chatting away. On the other side of the island, Dane is wearing a apron that says “KISS THE CHEF“ and a silly chef‘s hat.
On the counter in front of him are three plates, each with a stack of unmistakably heart-shaped pancakes.
Scottie sits at the table in her hockey team hoodie, ponytail half-done, grinning at him like this is the best day of her life.
And next to her plate is a small bouquet of flowers. Bright, cheerful daisies.
There’s another bouquet of pink roses—my favorite—beside the third plate.
All at once, and with more than a little guilt, I remember what today is.
Valentine’s Day.
“Oh,” I say softly.
Dane turns, his face lighting up instantly. “Hey. You’re up.”
“I am.” I blink at him, still fighting the last dregs of sleep. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He crosses the room in two strides and presses a kiss to my temple. “Because you were sleeping. And because you’re growing a human. And because I like being alive.”
Scottie snorts. “He said you and the baby needed extra rest.”
My throat tightens.
“You made breakfast,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Valentine’s breakfast,” Dane corrects. “Important distinction.”
He guides me to the table and pulls out my chair. “Sit.”
I do, still a little stunned and fighting the near-constant urge to burst into tears.
“There are flowers for both of my girls,” he says, nodding at the bouquets. “And a small gift for each of you.”
He encourages Scottie to open hers first.
