Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

“A whole brood of them. I want roots. Noise. Chaos,” I admitted, because in for a penny, in for a pound, and the way he was looking at me, made me believe he’d move heaven and earth to make all my dreams come true.

“Define brood,” he said on a grin.

“Ten. Twelve.”

Travis laughed, the sound filled with joy. “We better get started then. No time to waste.”

I grinned back. “But before that, you have some dating to do.” Because as much as I loved the idea of noise, and roots, and broods of whiskey-eyed Hale boys, I first wanted more blueberry festivals, and antique fairs, and moonlit lake rendezvous with the gorgeous man looking at me with love. I wanted morning upon morning where I woke first and marveled at his slumbering beauty in the still light of dawn. And I was determined to do it without that knot of fear in my belly.

“Oh, I’ll date you, Haven from California. I’m going to date the hell out of you. No one will have been dated harder in the history—"

I planted my lips on his and he laughed against my mouth as he swooped me up in his arms.

And in my mind, the future appeared, and it was incredibly, brilliantly bright.





EPILOGUE




Three Years Later



The breeze rustled the trees, the scent of ripened fruit sweetened the air. I looked out to the horizon where the first wash of lavender spread across the sky, casting the water a deep purplish-blue. A smile tilted my lips as I raised an arm, wiping the sweat that had gathered on my brow. It’d been a long Saturday spent digging in the dirt.

“Hey, handsome,” my wife said, coming up behind me and encircling my waist. “How’s my hard-working man?”

I turned, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and kissing her temple, careful not to rub my sweaty, probably dirt-smeared face in her hair. “Filthy,” I said.

“Don’t I know it,” she murmured, raising her eyes suggestively. “That’s how we ended up in this predicament.” She smirked, running a hand over her swollen stomach.

I grinned. Damn right. She was due any day now. It was a boy. Naturally. We’d named him Ryder. Pride swelled. I was going to have a son.

While I still had a regular job—the town had voted and generously decided to keep me as chief of police three years before, even after I’d made public my manifesto of shame—Haven and I wanted to accomplish the work of getting her nursery turned over for the changing of seasons before our little guy made his grand entrance. It was an all-hands-on-deck weekend at Haven’s Gate, Plant and Garden Center.

“It looks amazing,” Haven said, glancing around at the tiers of violets, dianthus, rosemary, ornamental peppers, and kale, and over to the neat rows of young trees. Easton, Archer, and I had unloaded them just that afternoon, arranging them by type and height. “Thank you.” I knew the small frown that followed was only due to the fact that she wanted to be involved with more of the heavy lifting than her body was currently allowing for. But if I knew my wife, she’d be back at it soon enough, a baby boy strapped to her chest as she helped some client or another plan the perfect garden.

“You’re welcome,” I said, kissing her again, inhaling her intoxicating fragrance, sweeter than any flower that had ever graced this nursery.

In the two and a half years since the garden center had opened, it had grown exponentially. It wasn’t only a wildly successful business, it was a place to gather. To plant the future. To encourage roots, deep and strong. Haven’s Gate had hay rides in the fall and fruit-picking in the summer. In the winter we sold Christmas trees and wreaths, and Bree made trays of hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows. And in the springtime, we started all over again, lilac bushes and new dogwood trees filling the old red barn that protected them from the frost until they were ready to find permanent ground. And though I only helped out on weekends and when necessary, it was soul-nurturing work, joyful and fulfilling.

Somehow, I knew in my gut my dad would be happy and proud of what his land had become. And someday soon, I’d sit on the dock nearby and fish with my little boy, teaching him to bait a hook the same way my dad had taught me, with patience and with love.

“It looks like you have it all covered here. I’m going to stop at the market and then head home and get dinner started,” she said, leaning in and kissing me once more.

I nodded, smiling. “I’ll be home in an hour or so.” Home. The small house on the lakeshore in Pelion with the creaky hardwood floors, and the original shiplap walls. The one where we whispered in bed in the quiet of night, words of love and tenderness, but also our fears, and insecurities, and the things we sometimes worried about. The one we’d need to add on to once our planned brood began materializing. I didn’t know a lot about what was involved in “adding on” to a structure, but I knew my brother would help me when the time arrived. I watched as Haven walked away, stopping to fuss with the tiered arrangement momentarily, hesitating on a violet that had gone into a bit of shock at being moved. Her face wasn’t visible, but I knew for a fact she was whispering words of care and encouragement. It’s what she did. She loved, fully and wholeheartedly, until withered things that had the will to thrive, found the strength to do so.

Like me.

Three years of loving her. Three miraculous years. We’d taken our time dating—after all, falling in love had been somewhat of a whirlwind. I’d courted her through all four seasons, and fallen more deeply in love by the day, which was exhilarating but not surprising. As Bree had said, when you know, you know, and we’d known.