The thought should calm me down.
It doesn’t.
Movement catches my eye near the path that winds through the pines toward the creek. A second later Barrett steps into view, carrying a loose bundle of wildflowers gathered against his chest. Pink, yellow, white.
He sees me right away and slows.
“Morning,” he says, his voice warm, completely unaware that my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.
Relief rushes through me so suddenly my eyes sting. I don’t think. I cross the yard at a near run. His brows lift in surprise just before I throw my arms around him. He catches me easily, one arm circling my waist while the other keeps hold of the flowers.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he says with a soft laugh. “What’s wrong?”
I bury my face against his chest and breathe him in. “You weren’t there.”
“I wasn’t where?”
“In bed.”
His hand moves slowly up my back. “I’m sorry, baby. I wanted to surprise you.”
He eases back just enough to lift the flowers between us.
I look at the wild bouquet, then back at him. My chest feels so full it hurts.
“Ask me.”
His expression shifts into confusion. “What?”
“Barrett, ask me.”
For one long moment he simply stares. Then I watch realization spread across his face. “You sure?”
I nod. I’ve never been more certain of anything.
A rough, joyful laugh escapes him. He ducks his head, rubbing his thumb across his jaw as though he’s trying to get ahold of himself. When he looks back up, his eyes are bright.
“Marry me, Rosalyn.”
7
EPILOGUE – BARRETT
9 MONTHS LATER
Ababymoon sounds made up.
Rosalyn says it isn’t, and since my wife is six months pregnant with our child and currently sitting at our kitchen table with one hand resting on the round swell of her belly, I’m smart enough to keep that opinion to myself.
“It soundsmade up?” she asks, eyes narrowing at me over her mug of tea.
I stop buttering toast. “Did I say that out loud?”
“You muttered something about made-up vacations.”
“Wasn’t muttering.”
“You were absolutely muttering.”
