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EPILOGUE
HARRY
Eight years later…
Fuzzy socks and ratty pajamas.
Florence and Cecily scamper through the house, dragging their teddy bears and princess blankets along. Their giggles and the pitter patter of their tiny feet rise up in the air. Romeo gallops after them, the collar around our Yorkshire terrier’s neck jingling merrily as he barks his little ass off.
“Story time!” my daughters shriek. Two hurricanes of dark, wild curls dash toward me where I’m in the living room throwing logs on the fire.
“Story time!” I echo them, falling on my ass when they tackle me to the ground. The girls climb all over me like a mountain and the dog gets in the middle of it, licking my face. I complain, pretending to be annoyed.
Nadia waddles in a minute later, shaking her head and carrying a tray of hot chocolates, popcorn, cinnamon bread and gingerbread cookies. “Babe, stop getting them all riled up,” she says to me. “It’s almost bed time.”
The way the Christmas lights cast colorful flickers on her face. Man, I’ll never get over how beautiful this woman is. Even when she’s trying to wrangle our unruly kids and me into order.
“Um, excuse me. I’m the victim here,” I say. “I’m being brutally attacked. Hello!”
The little girls only giggle and shriek louder. They’re just as rowdy as the great-grandmother they were named after. Grammy is so proud of these kids.
My wife rolls her eyes, chuckling. “Yeah, sure. The first wide receiver in pro-football history to win the coveted MVP award is getting taken down by two toothless demons in unicorn pajamas. Don’t let the sportscasters hear about this.”
I laugh, playfully chucking the girls to the carpeted floor and rising to help their mother. “Please don’t let this get out! It’ll ruin my reputation. It could destroy my career entirely.”
I feel a surge of pride in my chest. The Paragons had one hell of a football season. One for the books. I’ve been a braggy asshole about the role I played in that. Eight years later and I’m still proving to Liam Kline that trading me to L.A. would have been one of the biggest mistakes in Paragons history.
Anyway, ever since this year’s Super Bowl win, my wife reminds me on a daily basis of my history-making achievement. It’sourachievement, really.I’m the fucking MVP, bro!I’m still pinching myself. And we both know I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish this feat without her by my side.
I take the tray from Nadia’s hands and set it on the floor before helping her lower in front of the fireplace. She likes to insist that she can get around just fine on her own but the woman is seven months pregnant with my third baby. I’ll take any excuse to dote all over her.
Once I get her propped up on some cushions with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, I return my attention to the girls.
“So what story do you want to hear tonight?” I grin slyly, already knowing the answer.
“The story about how Mommy asked Daddy to the ball!” Cecily bounces around on her bum. Anticipation lights up the five-year-old’s face.
Six-year-old Florence nods into her mug of hot chocolate, agreeing with her younger sister. “Yes! That one’s my favorite.”
Nadia glares at me. I smirk.
I bundle my family up in front of the fireplace and dive into my story, telling the girls how stubborn their mother was when we first met and how she refused all of my advances, only to turn around and ‘beg’ me to accompany her to the gala. As she listens, Nadia elbows me in the ribs, pretending not to love every minute of this trip down memory lane.
I leave out the naughty bits of the story about our drunken wedding night shenanigans—I’ll fill the girls in on that part when they’re in their thirties. Maybe.
I end the tale in the present day, stroking Nadia’s stomach. “And then Mommy and Daddy lived happily ever after with their three precious babies—”
“And don’t forget Romeo!” Florence throws in, wiggling her toes in front of the fireplace.
“And Romeo. Of course,” I amend my story, pressing a kiss to the child’s forehead.
When story time is over, more hugs and kisses are exchanged. Nadia releases a big yawn into her palm. “Okay, bedtime routine, girls.”
“Really?” Cecily whines.
“I don’t want to,” Florence announces. “It’s Friday. No school tomorrow.”
Sexy Momma isn’t having it, though. “If you two aren’t in the bathroom, brushing your teeth on the count of three, I’m packing up my bags and I’m hittin’ the road. And I’m taking Daddy with me!”
