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Dawson-Miller Lodge is thriving now. Too thriving some days.

We’re booked through hunting season, most weekends through next summer, and have three weddings next month. Hank claims his business instincts saved us.

His business instincts were getting drunk and auctioning me off.

Unfortunately, he has five years of financial statements supporting his argument.

Miller Timber is doing even better.

Dane still works too much.

I still tell him that.

He still ignores me.

Some things survive marriage.

Maisie holds out her spoon. “Daddy.”

“No.”

She pouts.

Dane lasts approximately three seconds. “One more.”

I gape at him. “You are useless.”

“She’s persuasive.”

“She can’t pronounce spaghetti.”

“Not relevant.”

Maisie shoves another spoonful into her mouth. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Dane looks at me like this proves his point.

I shake my head. “You know she owns you.”

“Yeah.”

“You used to terrify this town.”

“Still do.”

“You have a bow in your beard.”

His eyes narrow. “Careful, wife.”

I smile. There’s the man I married. “Or what?”

His gaze drops over me. Even after five years, that look does something to me.

“Kids,” I remind him.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”