Page 225 of My Real Love Affair

“When we were younger? All of us. It was chaos—brothers everywhere, constant noise, someone always breaking something.” I smiled at the memory. “Now? It mostly sits empty. Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For the next generation, I guess. Or when my brothers’ kids are old enough to appreciate it. It’s not quite big enough for family gatherings these days. One of my brothers just bought one of those big mansions about a mile down. That’s where they held the family get together last summer.”

“The one you didn’t go to?”

I shook my head. “No, but Kent sent me a ton of pictures. I got curious and looked the place up online. It’s huge. Something like thirteen bedrooms and fifteen bathrooms. Plenty big to host our growing family gatherings.”

“And this one?”

I looked around, memories flooding me. “I don’t know. It has sentimental value. I think it’s better suited for weekends like this, when I need to hide away with the woman I love.”

She melted into me. “I like that reason best.”

Did she hear me? I needed to make my declaration clearer. I wanted her to really hear me. And I supposed I needed to know if she felt the same way.

I held her close and was having one hell of a mental war when she squeezed me. “Austin?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Oh, thank God.

“Yeah?” I couldn’t stop smiling.

“Austin.”

“I love you, Melody.”

We spent the afternoon christening various rooms of the house, making love in the bedroom, the shower, on the couch in the living room with the ocean view spread out before us. Each time felt different. Urgent and desperate, then slow and tender, then playful and laughing.

By evening, we were both starving, and I suggested we cook dinner together.

“You cook?” Melody teased, knowing damn well I didn’t.

“Teach me.”

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got in this massive pantry.”

We ended up making pasta from scratch—or rather, Melody made pasta from scratch while I tried to help and mostly just got in the way. But she laughed the whole time, patient with my mistakes, and when we finally sat down to eat our slightly lumpy but delicious fettuccine, I felt like I was actually learning valuable skills.

“This is nice,” she said, twirling pasta on her fork. “Domestic. Normal.”

“Is this what you imagined when you thought about your future? Cooking pasta with someone?”

“Actually, yes.” She smiled. “I’ve always wanted this—someone to cook with, to share meals with, to build a home with. The influencer thing, the career, that’s amazing. But this?” She gestured between us. “This is what I really wanted.”

“What else did you imagine?”

“Kids,” she said without hesitation. “I told you that before. I’ve always seen myself as a mom. I want the chaos of family dinners, the bedtime stories, the first days of school. All of it.”

I thought about my nephew Conrad and how much I’d enjoyed playing with him at Isaac’s house. How the idea of kidshad shifted from something that seemed terrifying to something that felt… possible.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said carefully. “About kids.”

She set down her fork, giving me her full attention. “Yeah?”