“There’s some protein bars,” I mutter.
“How do you have the diet of a teenage boy and a body like this?” she grumbles running her hand down my bare torso.
“It’s not all junk food,” I reply rolling my eyes. “There’s also my mom’s Friday night dinners, take out, and my job is physically demanding.”
“You’re lucky I like to cook.”
I lean closer to nibble on her earlobe.
“I’ll eat anything you make,” I whisper. “But right now I’ve got a craving for a particular kind of treat.”
Her eyes light up as I slide down the bed to settle between her thighs.
Epilogue
Paisley
10 Years Later
Summer mornings atJohnson River Adventuresstill smell like sunscreen, river water, and fresh pine. I stand on the dock with a clipboard in one hand and a stack of tiny life jackets in the other, watching the chaos I’ve come to love more than I ever thought possible.
“Mom! Patrick keeps splashing me!” Danielle yells, already in her bright orange life jacket, paddle in hand.
“Because you’re hogging the good kayak!” our five-year-old son fires back.
Dean’s low laugh rolls across the dock behind me.
“Easy, you two. The river’s big enough for both of you.”
He steps up beside me, one big hand settling possessively on my lower back. Even after ten years, that touch still makes my stomach flutter. He’s somehow gotten even more handsome, with deeper laugh lines, a few silver threads in his dark hair, and the same ridiculous green eyes that still look at me like I’m the only woman on the mountain.
“Ready for the next generation of clumsy kayakers, Paddles?” he murmurs against my ear.
I elbow him lightly.
“Don’t jinx it. You’re the one who insisted on teaching them yourself.”
“Family tradition,” he says with a grin.
The beginner group this morning is small and very special. Just our two kids and a couple of their cousins. Dean crouches down to adjust Danielle’s life jacket while I help Patrick into his kayak. Our daughter is seven going on seventeen, determined, and extremely competitive.
“Remember what your dad said,” I tell her. “Slow, steady strokes. Don’t swing that paddle like a baseball bat.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Famous last words.
Dean is demonstrating proper paddle grip to Patrick when Danielle turns to show off her perfect form. The paddle swings wide, fast, and—
Crack.
It connects solidly with Dean’s face.
“Ow—fuck!” he hisses, staggering back a step.
Blood immediately starts pouring from his nose.
“Dad!” Patrick yells.
