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“Good instincts.”

“He’s four.”

“Still good instincts.”

“And another girl?”

Dane looks toward Rosie’s crib.

I smile.

“Oh, you’re terrified.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“Three daughters would destroy you.”

“I can handle three daughters.”

“You can’t tell Maisie she can’t eat frosting for breakfast.”

“She had eggs first.”

I laugh so hard I have to bury my face against his chest. His arms wrap around me. For a minute, we stand there together in the dark nursery.

Five years ago, this man thought he needed a wife to keep a piece of land.

I thought I needed his money to keep a lodge.

Neither of us knew what the hell we were actually getting.

A house that’s never quiet.

Three kids.

A thriving lodge.

A dog with a blue ear.

Seven thousand mugs scattered across every surface.

A pink bow I found in our bathroom tonight because Dane apparently saved it instead of throwing it away.

A life.

Our life.

I look up at him. “Maybe.”

His eyes darken immediately. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s definitely not a yes.”

“Sounded like a yes.”