Epilogue
GHOST
Eight months later
I kill the engine in the gravel lot and the rumble cuts off like a blade.
My boots hit the ground hard enough to send dust kicking up around my ankles.
The Rust Nail’s neon sign is buzzing the same as always, but tonight it’s pissing me off.
Because inside that bar, behind that scarred oak counter, is my very pregnant wife, who swore she’d stay home until the baby came.
I shove the door open so hard the bell above it rattles like it’s scared of me. The place is slammed, every stool full, two deep at the bar, pool balls cracking in the back. And there she is.
Rae. My Rae. Eight months round with my kid, black hair twisted up in those messy buns that never stay put anymore, one hand resting on the swell of her belly while the other slides a pitcher across the bar like she owns the damn place.
My chest tightens. Jesus Christ. She’s supposed to be on the couch with her feet up, not pouring beers for half of Harlan.
I zero in on Wayne first. He’s at the register, counting out change, and he knows what’s coming the second he sees my face. I point straight at him, voice low and lethal. “I thought I told you she was done until after the baby was born.”
Wayne lifts both hands in surrender, the picture of an old man who’s learned when to back down. “She’s your wife, Ghost. You know better than anyone that no one can tell her what to do.”
Before I can answer, her voice cuts through the noise, loud, unfiltered, and completely unapologetic. “Oh calm your tits, Cole.”
I turn. She’s already waddling toward me, one hand still on her belly, the other waving a bar rag like it’s a white flag she has zero intention of waving.
Her cheeks are flushed, glasses sliding down her nose, and that little silver ring in her septum catches the light the same way it did the night I first saw her.
“I just came in to grab something,” she says, chin lifted like she’s ready to fight me right here in front of everyone. “But I noticed it was slammed, so I was just helping out the old man for a minute.”
I step close enough that my cut brushes her belly. Close enough that I can smell her, vanilla, and that sweet pregnancy scent that’s been driving me crazy for months. My hand settles on the curve of her stomach where our son is kicking like he already knows his mother’s in trouble.
I lean down so only she can hear me, voice rough and low. “I’m going to spank your ass, Rae.”
Her eyes spark with that same fire that hooked me the first night. She bites her lip, trying not to smile, but I see it anyway, the little twitch at the corner of her mouth that says she’s not the least bit sorry. “Promise?” she whispers back, voice all sugar and sin.
I groan, forehead dropping to hers. “Woman, you’re gonna be the death of me.”
She laughs, that loud, unfiltered laugh that still punches straight through every noise in the room, and slides her arms around my waist as best she can with the belly between us. “You love it.”
I do. God help me, I do.
Eight months ago I walked into this bar on club business and walked out with a wife. Now I’m standing here with a baby on the way, a woman who still refuses to listen to a damn thing I say, and a heart that finally figured out where it belongs.
I kiss her slow and deep, right there in front of Wayne, the regulars, and half the county. When I pull back, I rest my palm on her belly again and murmur against her lips, “Home. Now. Before I throw you over my shoulder in front of God and everybody.”
She grins up at me, eyes sparkling behind her glasses. “Yes, sir.” For once, she doesn’t argue.
I take her hand, nod once at Wayne, who’s still holding his hands up like he’s under arrest, and guide my very pregnant, very stubborn, very perfect wife out the door.
The night air hits us cool and quiet. Her fingers squeeze mine as we walk toward the truck. “Love you, Cole,” she says softly.
I pull her closer, arm around her shoulders, hand still on our son. “Love you more, baby. Always.”
And for the first time in my life, the quiet guy in the corner finally has everything he never knew he was waiting for.