EPILOGUE TWO
Roxie
I heard him before I saw him.
His voice, low and rumbling, singing some country song I’d heard him hum a thousand times while he worked.
I followed the sound down the hall to the nursery—the room we’d spent months decorating, every detail perfect, every piece of furniture he’d built himself. There was even a small bear with a butterfly on its nose in the corner.
I stopped in the doorway.
Bridger was standing by the crib, our daughter cradled in his arms. She looked impossibly small against his chest, her tiny fist wrapped around his finger.
He was swaying gently, still singing, completely absorbed in her.
My heart melted.
“Okay, sweet girl,” he said, his singing trailing off. “We need to talk about some rules.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“Rule #1,” he continued seriously, like she could understand him. “No dating until you’re thirty. At least. Maybe thirty-five. Forty sounds better.”
Our daughter made a small sound, and he nodded like she’d agreed.
“Rule #2: Any boy who wants to date you has to meet me first. And I’ll be cleaning my shotgun when he shows up. Just so we’re clear on expectations.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
He looked up, catching sight of me in the doorway. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear about the shotgun.”
“She needs to know the rules early.”
“She’s three months old.”
“Never too early to start.”
I walked into the room and sat down in the rocker. He knelt beside me and put her in my arms.
She was so perfect. Dark hair like her father. My nose. His eyes.
“Rule number three,” I said, looking down at her. “Your daddy is a little crazy. But we love him anyway.”
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
I settled into the rocking chair he’d made for me—carved from a single piece of oak, smooth and perfect, with cushions he’d had custom made in the exact shade of blue I’d mentioned liking once.
I adjusted my nursing gown and brought our daughter to my breast. She latched on immediately, and I sighed at the familiar relief.
Bridger knelt in front of us, his hand coming to rest on my knee.
“You’re so beautiful like this.”
“I’m exhausted, still covered in spit-up from the last feeding, and currently shaped like a loaf of homemade bread.
” I looked down at my soft, postpartum belly under the loose nursing gown.
I’d gained a new layer of softness since having our girl, and while I loved what my body had done, those old corporate-era insecurities sometimes tried to poke their head out.
“Still beautiful,” he insisted, his gaze burning with total sincerity as he slid his hand beneath my gown.
“Bridger,” I warned, even though I could feel my body respond with a sudden wave of heavy heat pooling right between my thighs.
“Hmm?” His fingers trailed upwards to slide under the elastic of my panties. He grinned when he realized I was wet.
“I’m feeding our daughter.”
“I know.” His rough, wood-carver’s palm was a heavy, scorching weight against my skin, sinking right into the thick fullness of my thigh. “I can multitask.”
“That’s not—” I gasped as the tip of his finger found my now aching bud. “That’s not multitasking.”
“No?” He pressed his finger down harder, rubbing softly. His other hand came up to my free breast, squeezing the my heavy, milk-rich curve gently through the fabric of my gown. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
I did. God help me, I did.
He wasn’t just touching me. He was worshipping me. Had from the moment he’d first touched me. It made me feel so damn beautiful to know he wanted me this much.
“Bridger.”
“Just touching,” he said innocently. “Making sure you’re comfortable.”
“That’s not what you’re doing.”
“No?”
The hand beneath my grown moved faster.
Our daughter kept nursing, completely oblivious to her father’s wandering hands.
“We can’t—not while she’s—”
“I know.” But his fingers were doing something that made my toes curl. “I just want to touch you. That okay?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
He smiled—that wicked smile that I’d fallen for—and kept on touching me. Gentle. Reverent. Possessive.
“Rule number fifty-one,” I said, trying to focus. “When the mountain man gives you that look, just surrender.”
“What look?”
“The one you’re giving me right now.”
“And what look is that?”
“Like you want to devour me.”
“I do want to devour you.” His thumb brushed over my nipple again. “Every day. For the rest of my life.”
“We have a baby now.”
“I know. Makes me want you even more.”
“How is that possible?”
“You gave me everything, Roxie. Made my house a home. Gave me a family. My whole fucking world.” His hand tightened on my breast. “How could I not want you more?”
My eyes burned.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you too.” He leaned up and kissed me. “Both my girls.”
Our daughter finished nursing and made a small sound of contentment.
Bridger took her from my arms, lifting her to his shoulder to burp her with practiced ease.
I watched him—this huge, intimidating man who carved bears with chainsaws and lived alone on a mountain—gently patting our tiny daughter’s back, murmuring soft words to her.
And I thought about that day when my car broke down. When I got into a stranger’s truck. When I broke every rule my mother ever taught me.
“No regrets?” Bridger asked, like he could read my mind.
“Not a single one.”
He smiled. “Good. Because I’m never letting you leave.”
“Rule #50: Move in with the mountain man who’s crazy about you.”
“Best rule you ever followed.”
“I didn’t follow it. You made it to suit your own purposes.”
“Semantics.”
Our daughter burped—a surprisingly loud sound for such a tiny person—and we both laughed.
“Come on, let’s get her back down. I have plans for the rest of our night.” He laid her carefully in the crib, tucking the blanket my mother had made around her. To say she was ecstatic about her grandchild was an understatement. She and Bridger’s family were over the moon.
Then he turned to me, that look back in his eyes.
“Now,” he said, crossing to me and pulling me up from the rocker. “Where were we?”
“I think you were trying to multitask.”
“Right. Let’s go finish that.”
He picked me up in his arms and carried me out of the nursery, down the hall, to our bedroom. And as he laid me on our bed, his hands already pulling my gown off, I thought about all those rules.
All of Momma’s rules that I’d broken and the ones I hadn’t. All the new ones I’d made as I’d fallen in love with Bridger.
Rules about love. About home. About family.
About what happened when you were brave enough to take the risk.