Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Epilogue

JACK

A few years later

It’s March, and the windows in our house are up, letting a spring breeze blow softly into the newly remodeled kitchen. It’s also clearing the smoke out.

“A little brown on top,” Cynthia murmurs, staring down at the chicken casserole I pulled out of the oven. She pokes at it with a fork, her face expressionless, but I feel the disdain radiating from her. She just can’t help it. It makes my lips twitch.

“Did you cook it on three-fifty for forty-five minutes like Cynthia said?” Clara asks me, sliding in next to us as she sniffs.

“I’ll be honest, those Ritz Crackers are burnt,” Giselle says, throwing in her two cents.

“Just scrape off the top. All the good stuff is underneath anyway,” Topher says, working on putting ice in the glasses for the tea.

Cynthia pats me on the back. “I’m sure it’s good, dear. It is her favorite, but she can eat my macaroni and cheese.”

“All that pressure of hosting Sunday lunch. It got to him.” Clara smirks. “He was too busy singing Katy Perry and forgot about the main entrée. Amateur. He might be a Super Bowl champion, but when it comes to cooking for his wife . . .”

“Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’ is stellar,” I murmur. “Did I tell you Scotty is coming? Yep. Any minute he’ll be knocking at the door.”

Her face flames. “You hussy!”

“Hmm, he jumped at the invitation when he brought the mail on Friday. I personally invited him.” My eyes gleam.

“You just wait. The next time you come in for a haircut, I’m gonna cut it all off.” She glowers at me.

Cynthia lasers her attention on her sister. “Just marry the man. Look at Jack; he made Elena official years ago. You’re gonna get old soon, and then what will you do? Be a forty-something virgin?”

“I’m going to set the table!” She marches off, and we all laugh.

“She’s really going to fix her lipstick.” Giselle chuckles.

We gaze down at the terrible, awful chicken casserole. “I really wanted to do it right.”

Cynthia gives me a hug. “Oh, honey, she’ll eat anything—especially if you make it. Plus, between keeping up with you and that job with the lingerie company, she’s too tired to care.”

“What the heck is all the smoke?” Devon says, waving his hands as he walks in the kitchen with Quinn and Aiden.

“Do I need to get the fire extinguisher?” Quinn adds.

“Nah. Jack just ruined Elena’s favorite meal,” Giselle says.

“Slipping, old man. Did you hesitate? Need me to run out and grab some KFC?” Aiden gives me a grin.

“I got distracted,” I exclaim. This is a big day . . .

“By his dancing and singing,” Giselle says as she pops a piece of fried okra in her mouth. “Did you always want to be a pop star, Jack? Stick with football, ’kay?”

“He tried; bless his heart,” Cynthia says. “Good thing I brought a backup.” She nudges Giselle. “Go get the one I brought in the car. It’s in a container in the back seat.”

I’m not surprised at all that she brought another chicken casserole, but I act indignant. “You didn’t think I could do it, even after you went over the recipe with me three times last week?”

Romeo runs in the room, his little nose sniffing the air. His gaze follows me as I head to the new custom stainless steel fridge and pull out a small cucumber and lean down to let him snatch it and dash off.

“There you go, bribing that pig. He still loves me most of all.” Cynthia smirks.

“He naps on me every day,” I counter. Not exactly true, but he has come around since I officially moved in two years ago.

She laughs. “Go check on Elena. Let me handle the rest.”

She wants to take over, and I want to see my wife, my hands already jonesing to hold her.

I walk in the dining room, my breath hitching when my eyes find her. Wearing jeans and a soft-blue sweater, she’s standing in the dining room, the sunlight catching her long auburn hair as she sets the table.

There’s something about her that calls to every part of me.

She’s mine.

We were married in August, as soon as my shoulder surgery allowed me to wear a suit. Six months from the first time we met, we stood side by side in her hometown church and said our vows, with Patrick officiating. She wore a long white dress Cynthia and her nana had both worn, an heirloom that Elena had altered with painstaking care, adding pearls and lace. I clearly recall her walking down the aisle to me, her hips swaying, that gorgeous hair down, with pink and purple flowers in her hands.

She took my breath then.

To know that she loved me.

That I was her one. And she was my one.

I whispered my vows, and it wasn’t because I was unsure—no, there was not a hesitant bone in my body when it came to her and how she made me feel. I was blown away by her, the depth of my love, the wave of emotions that tugged at me every time she walked in a room.

After all this time I still sometimes gaze at her and just . . . stare.

How is this even my life?

How did I ever find her, this crazy love that destiny brought me?

The Tigers won the Super Bowl this past season, my shoulder repaired, me at the top of my game. But even that particular victory doesn’t compare to her next to me in our bed, my arm curled around her waist when we sleep.

She resigned from her job as the librarian and took the intern job with Little Rose Lingerie, quickly working her way up the ladder to a paid position in their research and development division. She still makes her own things just for me.

My image repaired itself in an organic and real way, especially after the Tennessean wrote a kick-ass article about the play and how I professed my undying love for a certain small-town librarian. I still don’t give interviews. And no one seems to care.

“Dada!” comes from little Eleanor Michelle Hawke, barely eleven months old, as she sits on Lucy’s lap, laughing up at me, her little hands reaching out for me. I swing her up. She’s got a headful of dark hair, big aquamarine-colored eyes, and two little teeth.

Elena laughs, her gaze on me, then Eleanor, the same love and amazement in her eyes too. I have everything. A real home filled with laughter. Trust. Love. Family. Things I never dreamed of having.

I give Lucy a swift kiss on the cheek. Her husband, Roger, sits next to her. They come to all the Sunday lunches they can in between traveling.

Elena appears next to me and wipes at the remnants of Cheerios on Eleanor’s face. “Sweet girl. She loves her daddy.”

“And he loves her and her mama.”

She gives me a soft kiss as Eleanor coos on my hip.

“Can’t keep their hands off each other. Always with the kissing. It’s a wonder y’all ever get a thing done,” Cynthia murmurs as she walks in with a casserole that is obviously not mine.

“It’s sickening,” Devon agrees, following her in the room.

“When can I babysit?” Topher asks. He’s living a few streets over in a rental house. Elena and I have made her house our main home, although we spend time at my apartment in Nashville, too, mostly during football season—but it’s this house that keeps us centered. This small town that I’ve grown to love as much as Elena does.

Quinn jumps in, standing shoulder to shoulder with Topher. “I’ll help you, man. Pretty sure she hasn’t seen Grease yet.”

Hmm, those two . . .

“When can I teach her how to throw a football?” Aiden huffs. “’Cause her daddy ain’t got what it takes.”

“Watch it, Alabama. You’re still the backup,” I growl, then grin down at Eleanor, who’s giggling as she tugs on my hair.

Scotty walks in. Guess he knocked, and we missed it. He holds up a string of several white balloons. “Will this work, Elena?”

She glows at him. “Perfect!”

“What’s going on?” Cynthia says, her head cocked.

Elena smiles sheepishly as I wrap my arms around her.

“We have a surprise for you,” I murmur.

“Well, don’t drag it out,” Clara calls. “What are the balloons for?”

I lace my hands with Elena’s and stare into her eyes. “We’re pregnant,” I say, but I can’t stop looking at her. Always her.

“Oh my God, again?” comes from Giselle, who’d frozen as she tried to steal another fried okra someone put on the table.

“We planned it,” Elena says quietly, eyes on me. “All the babies. All the things we want.”

“Hmm,” I murmur and manage to kiss her again.

“The balloon is one of those gender-reveal things. Jack put me in charge so no one in the family would know until today,” Scotty says.

“You never said a word!” comes from Clara, who is glowering at him.

Cynthia’s eyes shine. “Well, I hope you aren’t going to torture us by waiting until after lunch! Pop that thing.”

I laugh, taking the balloon from Scotty. We thought about telling them as soon as Elena and I knew she was pregnant, but she wanted to do it like this, sharing the gender and the pregnancy all at once at Sunday lunch. We don’t even know, having given the sealed envelope from the doctor to Scotty a week ago.

“Thanks, man.” I glance at Elena, who gives me a shrug. Go ahead, her eyes suggest as she takes Eleanor from me.

“Nah, we’ll eat first,” I say.

“Stop that right now, Jack Hawke!” Cynthia exclaims.

Devon laughs. “Poor man. He’s probably terrified. Two freaking babies.”

“Chicken,” Aiden adds.

Laughing, I pop it with a fork, and pink confetti flies up in the air and floats gently down to the floor.

A lump builds in my throat, and my chest tightens. Overwhelmed. I want my whole life to be like this: me and her and what’s ours, sitting on our back porch, thanking the stars above for bringing her to Milano’s and straight to my arms.

She smiles up at me. Wipes my face with gentle hands. Shit. “Oh, Jack . . .”

“Happy, baby, just happy.”

Clara does a fist pump. “Girl! Daisy Lady Gang! DLG! The legacy grows!”

I just laugh, pull Elena closer, and kiss her.