Epilogue
HANNAH
“Clara is out with her dad,” I told Calliope as I let her in the house.
She visited often. We were close. I enjoyed her company immensely and looked up to her a great deal. We were friends, but she was also older than me, much richer than me, and much more accomplished. Whatever distance I occasionally felt was one I more than likely created in my own mind.
Calliope certainly didn’t create that distance.
She’d been at the hospital constantly during my recovery, and when I was cleared to come home, she was there almost daily.
Now that I was healed—except for the raised scar on my chest that would only go away with surgery—she stopped by less.
But still often. The family had been close before the shooting.
Afterward, I’d felt them close in, protective, eager to care for both Clara and me.
I’d been uncomfortable at first. Embarrassed.
After a whole life of looking after myself, it was hard to let a whole village in.
I was working on that. And I was working on being the village too. Lori needed one.
“Oh, I’m here to see you.” Calliope perched on a seat at the breakfast bar as I walked into the kitchen to get us coffee.
My step stuttered, and my stomach soured. I resumed my motions of getting the mugs, pouring coffee. The hairs on the back of my nape stood on end, anticipating bad news. I didn’t know why I expected that, maybe because I was waiting for more blows.
“Me?”
She nodded as I pushed her coffee toward her. “Not just to enjoy your company, even though I do.” She winked. “But to deliver two things. First being the joyful piece of news that your ex-husband had a terrible accident. He fell onto a shiv in jail. Very sad.” She stoically sipped her coffee.
Mine froze halfway to my mouth. “What? How do you know that?”
She flashed her teeth. “I make it my business to know everything about the piece of shit who almost tore apart my family.” Soft menace threaded through her tone.
Calliope was a force to be reckoned with. And she had a complicated, dark past. That I knew.
She had something to do with it. I wouldn’t ask her to confirm, the glint in her eyes telling me she did. Though I considered myself a mostly good person, I was glad. A weight was lifted off my shoulders. And more importantly, off Clara’s.
His trial had been rapidly approaching. I was dreading testifying. Calliope had gotten the most expensive lawyers money could buy to ensure that Clara wouldn’t have to. But the trial itself was a dark cloud that had me waking in the night in a cold sweat.
Waylon deserved death. For what he did to me. To Clara. If that made me a bad person, I guessed I was okay with that.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“For telling you?” She arched a sculpted brow slyly. “You’re welcome. It was selfish news to deliver, since anyone who hurts my family meeting an early grave is music to my ears.” She put her coffee cup down, reaching into the purse poised beside her on the chair.
The purse I assumed cost more than my car.
She withdrew an envelope, sliding it across the breakfast bar. “I hear you’re going to med school to become an oncologist.”
My cheeks flushed. “I mean, I just started the process. I may not get in or be eligible for any scholarships—”
“You’ll get in.” Calliope spoke with a faith in me I didn’t feel for myself.
She was confident. In me. And I knew it was genuine, as Calliope didn’t offer empty platitudes.
It did bolster my confidence, though. Having a successful woman believe in me.
Beau believed in me. But he loved me. He was deluded enough to believe I could fly if I told him I wanted to.
“As for the scholarship.” She waved to the envelope. “You won’t be needing one.”
I stared down at it, not opening it. I didn’t need to open it to figure out what it was.
Embarrassment washed over me.
“I don’t take charity.” I lifted my chin and met her gaze even though I was quaking in my flip-flops.
Calliope Derrick was glamorous, rich, powerful, and fucking scary. I would not win in a stare-off with her.
She considered me with a tilt to her head, an upturn to her red lips. “I don’t give to charity. Unless it’s for tax reasons.”
I doubted that. I knew Calliope was a good, generous person. She wore a hard exterior, for whatever reason—to protect herself, I guessed. I would’ve crafted that kind of skin for myself too if I had been able.
“It’s an investment,” she continued. “You’re an investment. I’ll find a way to recoup.” She pushed the envelope closer.
I stared at it, seeing the years of struggle and debt melting off by opening the small package. My fingers even twitched. But my pride wouldn’t let me.
“I’ve worked with powerful people.” She grinned at me, noting my stubbornness.
“Billionaires, CEOs.” She waved her hand.
“And do you know that none of those people got there on their own, without someone else making a bet, an investment on them? They’d never admit it, of course.
Everyone likes to pretend to be self-made.
” She chuckled. “But we all need a little help.”
“Even you?” I challenged. I found it impossible to believe Calliope Derrick needed help from anyone.
“Even me, sweetheart. I did most of the legwork myself, which is why I have such a nice ass.” She smirked.
“But I had some helping hands.” Her gaze seemed far away, wistful, and almost sad before she blinked and looked at me.
“I’m guessing you’re not used to good things happening.
People wanting to help. Though I may not have a whole bunch of goodness in my heart, this is coming out of that piece.
” She drummed her nails on the envelope.
“And like I said, I’m sure I’ll cash in my investment, one way or another.
It always pays to know a doctor. Especially a world-class one. ”
My mind raced as I considered taking the check. Calliope wouldn’t offer this lightly. This was truly a helping hand.
“I’m not a doctor yet. Not even close. How do you know I’ll even make it?”
She smiled. “Because I know these things. See women who will never give up. I have an eye.” She tapped the side of her temple. “And I’m looking at a young woman who is going to be brilliant. Now take the fucking check.”
I didn’t know what else to do. So I took the fucking check.
FIVE YEARS LATER
I stared at the stick.
Blinked once.
Twice.
It was still there.
The second line.
I’d taken a handful of pregnancy tests over the years.
Every time they were negative, I felt a palpable surge of relief.
When I was with Waylon, at least. The one single time I had a scare with Beau I stared at the negative test and told myself I was relieved.
I was studying for boards, stretched to my limits.
No way a baby would’ve been prudent at that time.
All things I’d told myself. And yet I couldn’t hide the nugget of disappointment I carried around with me at the negative test. And the worry that I might not ever carry Beau’s baby.
I was already a mother to Clara. I’d be more than happy with just Clara for the rest of my life.
But selfishly, I wanted a big family. I’d never had one.
But I also wanted to be a doctor. And had grueling hours ahead of me.
Clara was in school, needing us less. A baby was not in the cards at that time.
I couldn’t have everything.
Especially when, objectively, I had everything.
Then came the second pink line.
I was still staring at it, waiting for it to go away.
It didn’t.
Silently, I walked into our bedroom, where Beau was reading a textbook wearing his reading glasses.
He read up so he could help quiz me.
He was also shirtless.
The peppering of gray on his head and beard only served to make him more attractive. Add in the tan from our endless weekends at the beach, the chiseled muscles from the gym… Beau was effortlessly hot.
Yeah, my husband had not lost his novelty. Even after five years. I did it less, but I still pinched myself to make sure this was real.
It was.
“Why does cisplatin kill the kidneys?”
I heard the words, I even knew the answer, but I couldn’t speak. I just stood in the middle of our bedroom.
A few seconds of silence passed, Beau still looking at the book before his eyes darted up playfully, likely to tease me.
Yes, on occasion, Beau Shaw teased me. Was playful.
He was still my favorite grumpy bastard, but he softened a little.
For me. For Clara. The more distance he got from her illness, the shooting, the less on guard he was.
As much as a parent who had had to face the real possibility that their child could die could be.
I understood that that was something he’d carry forever.
It was something that would color his smiles with a darkness he could never shake.
One I didn’t want him to. Because it was a part of him. His intensity. How he loved.
And that’s what I got then, as Beau took in my body language, sensed my borderline catatonic state. I watched his eyes zero in on the thing I was holding in my hands.
He hurled the book across the room. It hit something, made a loud crash then thumped to the floor. It was not a light textbook.
I didn’t even jump. Beau jackknifed off the bed, coming toward me in a few long strides.
He gingerly placed his hands on my hips, head touching mine as he looked down at the positive test in my hands.
“It’s terrible timing,” I blurted. “I’m in the middle of med school—then there’s residency, and if I even get the fellowship I want, it just keeps going. It only gets busier. I’m going to get busier. You’re in the middle of the cookbook. There’s just—”
“You’re carrying my baby.” His interruption—he still did that after all these years—was not a question.
His voice was low and rumbly, yet impassive.
I couldn’t quite catch a feeling in it. It was hard at the best of times with Beau, but right then, with my heartbeat echoing through my skull, I couldn’t decipher much.
“It’s not the mailman’s,” I joked lamely.
“You’re carrying my fucking baby,” Beau repeated, ignoring my joke.
Then he lifted me into his arms. I let out a squeal of surprise as he walked two steps to the bed, carefully lowering me on it.
He looked down at me with a reverence that stole my breath. Still not something I got over, a man looking at me like I was worth something. Like I was worth everything.
“Beau.” I was still clutching the pregnancy test for dear life. “The timing.”
“Fuck the timing,” he grunted, divesting me of my shorts. I lifted my hips on autopilot. “I’m not getting any younger.”
He actually looked like he was getting younger. The grays made him seem more youthful, the lines in his faces only accentuating his handsomeness. It would make me mad, this hot aging thing, if he weren’t my husband.
“I’ll be so busy,” I whined.
“I’ll be a stay-at-home dad. Bring the baby to you whenever you need to feed, if that’s your journey.” He took off my panties. “Clara will help.”
For the first time, being exposed that way to him didn’t fill me with fire and butterflies like it normally did. Don’t get me wrong, I felt something, I wasn’t dead. But the usual inferno wasn’t blazing.
“Clara is a child. She does not need to be looking after a baby.” I shook my head. “And what about your cookbook?”
“Fuck my cookbook.” Beau got onto his knees, breath hot on my bare pussy.
Okay, cue inferno.
“It’s all you’ve ever dreamed of.” I huffed out a breath, jutting up on my elbows.
Beau’s hand trailed up my inner thighs, cupping me there.
“No, baby, this is all I’ve ever dreamed of.” He looked pointedly at my pussy, then the pregnancy test. “You fast becoming the most talented doctor in the world—”
“Massive exaggeration, and I’m not even a doctor yet,” I muttered.
“Our daughter healthy, thriving,” he continued. His hand went to my stomach. “Our child growing inside you.” My body slackened at his touch on my still-flat belly.
“Are you happy?” he asked, expression serious. “Do you want this baby?”
“Are you fucking crazy?” I half shrieked. “Of course, I want this baby. I want a hundred of your babies, although I don’t think my body, or my vagina, could handle that.”
Beau let out a low chuckle. A chuckle from him was a gift, one I managed to rightly treasure, even in my current state.
“How about we start with one?”
“One will be great.”
We found out six weeks later that it was twins.
They came into the world two weeks early, with just a little fanfare—that being their father delivering them in our living room thanks to my lack of concern and their urgency to enter the world.
Both boys were healthy. Both were beloved by their father, their older sister, and their mother.
Me. I was their mother. To three perfect children.
On the night of the birth, with Beau holding one baby, Clara holding another, I pinched myself one more time, just to check.
No, this was not a dream.
This was my life.