Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 74379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Dash didn’t stop crying, but Reed didn’t care. He just hugged him and closed his eyes, memorizing everything about him all over again.
“Y’all have fun with that.”
Rafe left after those few short words, and I shook my head. “Did you know he was over there with you?”
Reed nodded. “I saw him a few times, but I never figured out why he was there,” he explained, holding his arm out for me.
I took his hand that wasn’t cradled around Dash’s booty, and started out of the airport hand in hand with my man.
We made it to the car before I got Baxter out, who was still just as pissed now as he was when I’d woken him up.
The moment we were in the truck—Reed’s truck—we switched babies.
I smiled when he did the same thing to Baxter as he did to Dash.
“So, tell me about this woman,” I ordered.
Reed’s eyes went wired.
“I told her if she didn’t leave me alone, that I would have my wife kick her ass.”
“Oh, really?”
He nodded. “Really.”
“Point her out, I’ll take care of her sorry ass.”
Reed laughed. “Let’s get these boys strapped in and head home. I’m dying to be inside of you.”
I blushed profusely.
“Reed,” I whispered. “You can’t say stuff like that in front of those delicate ears.”
He snickered. “Didn’t you tell me that we needed to fix the insulation between our room and the nursery?”
I nodded.
“Then these words won’t be the only thing they hear tonight, unfortunately.”
I just shook my head.
“Let’s go.”
But when we got home, Reed didn’t take me to our room.
He stopped dead in the middle of our living room and stared at the mess.
“What…”
Then a dog—who looked exactly like our Pepé—stepped out from behind the recliner.
“So, about that…”
He looked over to me.
“You’re in so much trouble.”
Epilogue
PSA: Due to pregnancy hormones currently surging through my body, I could kiss you or geld you at any moment. Be prepared.
-Text from Krisney to Reed
Reed
Two years later
“Push.”
“I don’t want to push,” she snarled. “If I push, I’ll shit all over the fucking table, and then you’ll tease me relentlessly for the rest of my life. So no, I’m not pushing. You can go to fuckin’ hell.”
And that was that.
I rolled my eyes. “Kris, I’ve seen hundreds of women give birth. I know what the body goes through. I won’t judge…”
“You will not do. This. To. Me,” she snarled. “GO away.”
I ignored her and felt the fontanel of my daughter’s head—yes, we’d accidentally found this one out at the twenty-week exam—and said with more patience than I’d ever used with any other woman, “Push.”
“Fuck. You.”
Then she pushed.
And, for all those wondering, no, she did not shit on the table.
She did, however, scream my fuckin’ ear off as she dug one of her heels into my shoulder and tried to donkey kick me in the face.
“Oh, my fuckin’ God!” she screeched. “Why the fuck did we think it was a good idea to go on a fuckin’ babymoon three weeks before my due date?”
That, unfortunately, had been my idea.
But, as her doctor, I’d thought it would be okay.
We were only two hours away. What could go wrong?
Apparently, I didn’t factor in the hike that Kris wanted to take, or the goddamn flash flood that rolled over the entire goddamn bottom half of Texas.
No, because if I had, I might not have suggested going to a cabin in the woods with no one around for miles.
I also wouldn’t have suggested we go on a weekend where it was set to hurricane the shit out of Texas.
But I had suggested it. And we did go on a hike.
And now, we were stranded when the only two roads leading out of where we were located were washed out. I’d tried to leave earlier, for your information, but Krisney went into hard labor, which led us to now and her currently delivering our third child.
“Fuck you.”
I tried not to take her words to heart as she screamed in pain, but just as suddenly as that ‘fuck you’ had come out of her mouth, she bared down, and our daughter was born kicking and screaming, already acting exactly like her mother.
I caught her with smooth, practiced hands, and fucking smiled like a dolt as I did.
“Oh, God,” I breathed. “Baby, she’s perfect. Just like our boys.”
She had dark brown hair—a lot of it—and squinty eyes. A cute little button nose just like Dash, and a set of lungs like Bax.
Our sons, Dash and Bax, were now two years old. They acted, sounded, and played like other normal two-year-olds. Bax had a slight speech delay, but Dash more than made up for that with talking for both of them. Dash was a late walker, but now you couldn’t even tell that he hadn’t started to walk until he was well over a year and a half old.