I wanted to question her further, but something about the stubborn set of her jaw told me I wouldn’t get anything out of her. So, I pulled out my phone and murmured, “Cross is here. I’ll let him know he has a visitor.”
After firing off a quick text, I watched the woman carefully as Clara gently approached her, trying to subtly glean information. “Is everything okay?”
The woman just scowled harder, clearly unwilling to share details.
Cross strode in minutes later, his brows knitted in confusion. Before he could open his mouth, the woman shoved the carrier toward him, her voice edged with barely restrained anger and something I couldn’t put my finger on. “You’re a hard man to find Griffin. Here. This is Isa—I mean Isabella. The baby’smother, Rea Norman, passed away three months ago. Since you’re her dad, she’s your responsibility now.”
The stunned silence was absolute. Cross stared at her, his mouth opening and closing, finally sputtering, “What the fuck are you talking about? Who the hell is Rea Norman? I’m not a?—”
The woman’s glare darkened even more before she interrupted him, “I’m not surprised you don’t remember your one-night stand, but apparently, she sure remembered you because she listed you as the father on the birth certificate. Congratulations, Dad.”
She glanced at the baby, looking for a moment as if she might cry. Then her expression cleared, and she turned on her heel to storm out, leaving Cross standing in shock. He blinked a few times, then set the carrier carefully on the counter and shot Clara a pleading look. “Can you watch her for just a second?”
Before waiting for a response, he bolted after the woman.
Clara stood frozen, her mouth agape as she stared after him, but the soft cry of the baby snapped her attention back down to the little bundle. Moving carefully, she reached in, undid the buckles, and gently picked up the baby girl, cradling her naturally against her chest.
“You know,” Clara murmured softly, studying the baby’s delicate features, “she certainly looks like Cross.”
I couldn’t argue with that, but it didn’t reconcile with the man I knew. Cross wasn’t the one-night kind of guy.
Glancing at Clara, I was distracted by her sweet, dreamy expression.
“I wonder what ours will look like,” she whispered.
Careful not to squish the baby, I pulled her into my arms. My heart swelled with an emotion that was becoming damn familiar when she was around. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, inhaling the apple and honey scent that always clung to her skin.“Hopefully, they’ll have your chestnut hair and those amber eyes.”
I pictured little girls who looked just like their mama, then frowned slightly, a new thought hitting me hard. “On second thought, maybe we should only have boys.”
Clara’s head jerked up, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What exactly is wrong with girls?”
“Not a damn thing,” I growled, my voice edged with protective menace. “But if we have girls, especially ones as fucking gorgeous as their mom, I’m gonna end in prison when they eventually link me to the missing bodies of every little shit that looked too long at my baby girls.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head as she leaned into me. “I love you, Ronan.”
“Love you too, baby.” My voice was rough and genuine, the words settling something deep inside my chest.
The baby cooed softly, drawing our attention again. Clara smiled down at her, cradling her closer, her expression so tender and natural it made my breath catch. As I watched Clara with the little one, the quiet wonder and warmth radiating from her, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was exactly where I was meant to be. This amazing life was mine, and sometimes it still fucking floored me to realize it.
EPILOGUE
CLARA
Over the past fifteen years, we’d added a second corn maze, a full petting zoo, and a cider-pressing station that drew crowds from three counties to our annual fall festival. The farm store had doubled in size, thanks mostly to Harper’s bakery expansion, and the pumpkin patch had become legendary under Greg’s leadership.
I stood at the edge of the photo-op area, my arms crossed as I watched Ronan and our ten-year-old daughter as they painted mini pumpkins. Her thick chestnut hair was already escaping her braid, and her amber eyes sparkled with mischief as she dabbed yellow paint.
“There. He needed a bigger smile.”
Ronan chuckled, and the deep sound still made my stomach flip after all these years. “Bossy like your mama.”
Faye giggled and smeared a streak across his beard. Used to her antics, he just set her on her feet and shook his head.
Henry, our oldest at fourteen, marched over from the hayride line. “Dad, come on. I’m tall enough now. Let me pull the wagon. Grandpa said I could if you okay it.”
Our son had learned how to drive a tractor before he was ten, but we’d agreed that he needed to be sixteen before he could help with the hayrides. Not only for insurance purposes—he needed a couple more years to mature before we trusted him with our customer’s safety to that extent.
Ronan arched a brow. “Grandpa and I have it covered. Go help your grandma in the store.”
