His grin spreads slowly.
Then the room erupts.
Cheers.
Whistles.
Someone pounds the table.
“About damn time!”
Ryan pulls me into his chest carefully, mindful of my ribs.
His hand slides around the back of my neck, holding me there for a second.
Then he presses the patch into my hand.
“You’re mine now, Trouble,” he murmurs.
I laugh softly through my tears.
“Good.”
Because I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Epilogue
Emma
Six months pregnant with twins is a special kind of hell. I never quite understood the depth of that statement until the day the doctor first told Ryan and me there were two heartbeats instead of just one. At the time, I thought it was sweet and exciting, the prospect of welcoming not one, but two little lives into the world.
Now? Now I waddle. Everywhere I go, I feel like a duck, my once graceful movements replaced with a clumsy shuffle. My center of gravity feels like it’s vanished into thin air, leaving my lower back in a constant state of discomfort. And to add insult to injury, my bladder seems to have the structural integrity of a paper cup—every slight movement is a gamble.
To make matters worse, my stomach has developed very specific and very aggressive cravings. Today’s craving? A fountain Diet Coke. But not just any Diet Coke—I need it in a styrofoam cup, with Grillo’s dill pickle chips floating right in the drink. Yes, floating. Don’t even question it. Those little boys in my belly know exactly what they want, and right now, it’s all about that fizzy, tangy combination.
Ryan jokes that the babies are already “little psychopaths.” Honestly, I think they might just be geniuses.
Unfortunately, the club meeting—what the guys affectionately call “church”—has been dragging on for over an hour. That means the man with the truck keys, the one who could rescue me and bring me my much-needed drink, is locked away in a room arguing about something that feels utterly unimportant in comparison to my cravings. So here I am, suffering. Deeply.
I’ve taken a seat on a barstool in the kitchen area of the clubhouse, holding a canned Diet Coke like it’s personally offended me.
“This is useless,” I mutter under my breath, frustration spilling out.
I take a sip and immediately make a face. “Disgusting.”
It’s far from the icy fountain promise I crave—it's not cold enough, and definitely not fizzy enough. My mood dips further.
Just then, a nervous voice breaks through my thoughts. “Miss Emma?”
I look up to find one of the prospects standing there, a poor kid who has been assigned to hover around me for the past month like I’m some kind of fragile royal.
“Yes?” I respond, trying to muster a smile.
“You said you wanted a drink?” he asks, hope flickering in his eyes.
“I do,” I reply, my tone a mix of desperation and longing.
“I can make one,” he offers, his enthusiasm evident.
