Because her pants are wet and a puddle is growing on the floor and…holy fucking hell.
It’s happening.
“Leo,” she whispers.
“I know.”
Our eyes meet and her smile is both nervous and excited—same as I’m sure mine is.
Then we both speak at once.
“It’s time.”
Epilogue
Harper, three years later
I close my planner and sigh softly, rolling my shoulders.
The laughter upstairs has quieted, telling me that bath time is over—and likely that there’s water everywhere.
Reed loves taking baths.
But he might love splashing water outside of the tub even more.
Lips twitching, I stow my planner away, put my pens in the little cup I keep on the island for that express purpose.
Then I go to the fridge and pour myself a glass of milk.
And, horror of all horrors, I move to the cookie jar and snag an oatmeal raisin cookie.
“Ah-ha, caught red-handed.”
I freeze, my fingers around the delicious (because I baked it) confection.
Then I turn toward my husband and lift my chin, still holding the cookie. “Pretty ballsy to tease the person whose job it is to make your favorite treat.”
He moves over to me, all loose-limbed strength.
Heat blooms in my belly and it takes every bit of my control to stay in place, to not launch myself at him.
God, he’s sexy.
“If you didn’t make my favorite treat,” he says, wrapping his fingers around my wrist and tugging my arm up so he can take a bite of my—my!—cookie. “Then you also wouldn’t have your favorite pregnancy craving.”
The baby in my belly kicks, as though agreeing with him.
And, hell, the universe has a sense of humor.
Because Leo isn’t lying.
I’ve wanted oatmeal raisin cookies from the moment the plus sign first showed up on the test.
“Here,” I say, shoving the half-eaten cookie at him with a mock scowl. “It’s got cooties now.”
He smirks. “You just want to get the biggest cookie in the jar.”
“No way.” I reach my hand in then pull it out with a flourish. “I wanted the two biggest cookies in the jar.”
