Bonus Scene
ELSIE
There's something deeply unfair about the fact that my husband looks just as devastatingly handsome at forty-seven as he did the day I first met him in my vet clinic twelve years ago.
I'm sitting on a faded quilted blanket at the edge of River Bend Lake, watching Beckett attempt to teach our daughters how to fish, and I'm trying very hard not to laugh.
The man has faced down three-alarm fires, managed a station full of rowdy firefighters, and once carried a full-grown potbelly pig through a thunderstorm when Beans got spooked by fireworks.
But right now, standing knee-deep in lake water with two fishing poles and a container of night crawlers, he looks absolutely terrified.
"Okay, girls," Beckett says, his voice pitched in that careful, patient tone he uses when he's trying not to lose his mind. "You have to bait the hook with a worm."
Ember, our eleven-year-old firecracker, bounces on her toes at the water's edge.
She's got my red hair, though hers falls in wild curls that she refuses to tame, and Beckett's sharp green eyes.
She's wearing cutoff denim shorts and a tank top that says "Future Veterinarian" in glitter letters, and she's practically vibrating with excitement.
"I can do this, Daddy," she announces, reaching for the bait container with the confidence of someone who has absolutely no idea what she's doing.
Jessie Anne, our eight-year-old, takes a small step backward.
She's more delicate than her sister, with Beckett's dark hair and my blue eyes, and she tends to approach life with caution.
She's wearing a sunhat that Beckett insisted she bring, and she's clutching her pink fishing pole like it might bite her.
"Do we have to touch the worms?" Jessie Anne asks, her nose wrinkled in that adorable way that makes her look exactly like my mother. "Can't we just… tell them to hop onto the hook?"
Beckett's lips twitch. "Unfortunately, worms don’t listen to us, sweet pea."
"But why?" Jessie Anne presses.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. God, I love these girls. I love this man. I love this ridiculous, chaotic, perfect life we've built together.
From my spot on the blanket, I can see everything—the way the afternoon sun catches the silver in Beckett's hair, the way Ember's curls bounce as she practically vibrates with energy, the way Jessie Anne clutches her sunhat like it's a shield against the horrors of nature.
Behind us, the woods of Riverbend Ridge rustle with summer sounds, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.
It’s a good thing we left our animals back at the house.
Pork has arthritis now and doesn't do well on long walks, and Beans, well, Beans is elderly and moves at approximately the speed of a glacier.
As for Mr. Snugglebutt, the orange devil is probably napping on my clean laundry, dreaming of the days when he was in charge of the house.
"Alright, Em," Beckett says, opening the bait container. "You want to go first? Show your sister how it's done?"
Ember's confidence wavers for exactly half a second as she peers into the container. Then she squares her shoulders, just like her father does when he's about to deal with one of his brothers, and nods. "I'm ready."
Beckett pulls out a fat, wiggling nightcrawler, and Ember's eyes go wide.
"Oh my God," she breathes. "It's huge. And disgusting. Ick. Do I really have to touch it?”
"It's a worm, baby. It isn’t going to hurt you. Now, you want to hold it like this—"
Beckett demonstrates, pinching the worm between his thumb and forefinger, and Ember lets out a shriek that probably startles every fish within a five-mile radius.
"It's moving! Daddy, it's moving!"
"Worms do that," Beckett says, his voice strangled with suppressed laughter.
Jessie Anne takes another step back, her eyes wide. "I don't think I want to do this," she announces. "I think I want to be a supportive sister from over here. By Mommy."
"Come on, Jess," Ember says, though she hasn't actually touched the worm yet. "Don't be a chicken."
"I'm not a chicken," Jessie Anne says with dignity. "I'm just… selectively brave."
I hold out my arms, and Jessie Anne immediately scampers over to curl up beside me on the blanket. She smells like sunscreen and strawberry shampoo, and she presses her face against my shoulder with a dramatic sigh.
"Mommy, why do people fish?" she asks, her voice muffled. "It seems very unpleasant for everyone involved. Especially the worms."
I stroke her dark hair, smiling as I watch Beckett try to coax Ember into actually touching the bait. "Well, sweetie, some people think it's relaxing. And your daddy likes teaching you girls new things."
"But he's teaching us to stab worms with hooks," Jessie Anne points out, ever the logical one. "That doesn't seem very nice."
"Nature isn't always nice," I say, though I privately agree with her.
I've never been much of a fisher myself.
I prefer my outdoor activities to involve less slime and more wine.
But Beckett has been talking about taking the girls fishing for months, ever since Ember came home from school raving about some book she'd read where the protagonist went on a fishing trip with her grandfather.
My husband, being the overachieving, slightly obsessive man I fell in love with, immediately researched the best fishing spots in a fifty-mile radius, bought matching poles for the girls, and spent three evenings watching YouTube tutorials on how to teach children to fish.
He really is ridiculous. And wonderful. And mine.
"Okay, new plan," Beckett announces, still holding the worm while Ember eyes it like it might attack her. "How about Daddy baits the hooks, and you girls just do the casting and reeling?"
"Yes!" both girls shout in unison.
Beckett shakes his head, but he's grinning as he threads the worm onto the hook. "There. All set. Now, Ember, remember what I showed you about casting?"
Ember takes the pole with renewed confidence, whipping it back over her shoulder in a move that looks more like she's preparing to javelin-throw it than cast a line.
"Wait, wait—" Beckett starts, but it's too late.
The line sails through the air in a wild arc, the hook and worm disappearing into the trees behind us with an ominous thunk.
"Oops," Ember says.
Jessie Anne giggles into my shoulder. "I think she was trying to catch a squirrel."
I can't help it. I burst out laughing. Beckett turns to look at me, and the expression on his face—exasperated, amused, completely in love—makes my heart skip a beat, just like it did all those years ago when he rushed into my clinic with a supposedly dying pig.
"You think this is funny, Hot Doc?" he calls out, his green eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I think you're adorable," I call back. "All three of you."
Jessie Anne preens at the compliment while Beckett and Ember disappear into the tree line looking for the pole.
When they return, Beckett baits the hook with another worm, then holds it out to Ember. "Come on, wild child," he says. "Let me show you one more time."
I watch as Beckett kneels in the grass, pulling Ember close, showing her the proper way to hold the pole, the right motion for casting. He's so patient with our girls, so gentle.
It still amazes me sometimes how this man, who used to be so rigid, so controlled, so obsessed with order and protocol, has become the kind of father who lets his daughters put glitter in his hair and paint his toenails.
I think about how, just last week, I caught him baby-talking to Beans in the kitchen, telling the old pig what a good boy he was, how handsome, how brave.
The pig had just looked at him with those beady eyes, completely unimpressed, while Pork snored in his bed nearby and Mr. Snugglebutt knocked a glass off the counter just because he could.
Our life isn't perfect. Beckett still drives me crazy with his contingency plans and his obsessive need to organize the pantry by expiration date.
I still drive him crazy with my habit of paperback books on every flat surface and my refusal to let him throw away the girls' artwork.
We argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes, whether the girls are too young for summer camp, and whether we really need another pet.
But it's our life. And it's beautiful.
"Mommy! Mommy, look!"
Ember's shriek pulls me from my thoughts. She's pointing at the water, where her bobber has disappeared beneath the surface, the line going taut.
"I think I got one! I think I got a fish!"
"Reel it in, baby!" Beckett coaches, his hands hovering near hers but not touching. He lets her do it herself. "Nice and steady. Don't jerk it."
Ember's face is a picture of concentration, her tongue poking out between her teeth, her curls falling into her eyes. She turns the reel with careful, deliberate movements, and I find myself holding my breath, caught up in the excitement. Ember’s line jerks hard, and the next thing I know, she’s hauling something out of the muddy water like a pro.
There’s a quick, wild splash and suddenly, she’s got a tiny, wriggling sunfish hanging from her line.
It’s barely bigger than a potato chip. Beckett looks at her like she just landed a freaking shark.
“Look at that!” he shouts, pure pride bursting out of him. “That’s the biggest fish I’ve ever seen, sweetheart!”
Ember’s eyes light up with joy. She’s jumping up and down, waving the soggy baby fish like it’s a trophy from the Olympics. I get up off the blanket and saunter over, Jessie Anne glued to my side.
I lean close and whisper, “Your sense of size seems to be a little distorted.” My voice is low, teasing, just for his ears.
That damn smug look I love so much spreads across his face. He winks down at me, voice dropping to a wicked rumble. “It’s a guy thing. Size is always a relative thing.”
I snort so hard I almost choke, and Beckett just laughs. The girls crowd around the catch, Ember holding the line up so Jessie Anne can stare at it close-up. The poor fish waggles helplessly while my husband gently unhooks it.
“It’s so cute.” Jessie Anne tells Beckett.
“I know,” Ember agrees. “I don’t really want to kill it. Why don’t we toss it back so it can stay with its family?”
Beckett looks back and forth between the girls before shrugging. "Do you want to toss it back?” He hands the wiggling fish to Ember.
I watch proudly as Ember tells the fish to have a happy life and gently releases it back into the lake.
I lie back on the blanket, staring up at the sky, listening to the sounds of my family.
Beckett is telling the girls about the time he and his brothers went fishing with their dad, how Ian fell in the lake, and Atlas caught a shoe instead of a fish.
The girls are giggling, interrupting with questions, arguing about who gets to tell the next story.
"Elsie."
I open my eyes to find Beckett standing over me, blocking the sun. He holds out his hand, and I take it, letting him pull me to my feet.
"Come here," he says, his voice low and rough in that way that still makes me shiver.
He leads me a few steps away from the girls, who are now arguing about whether fish have feelings and if they should maybe just feed the worms to the birds instead. When we're out of earshot, Beckett pulls me close, his hands settling on my hips, his forehead resting against mine.
"Hey," he murmurs.
"Hey, yourself."
"You looked like you were about to fall asleep."
I smile, reaching up to trace the lines around his eyes—laugh lines, life lines, the marks of a man who has loved deeply and well. "I was just thinking about how lucky I am."
Beckett's hands tighten on my waist. "I'm the lucky one," he says, and I can hear the sincerity in his voice, the same intensity that was there the first time he told me he loved me. "Every single day, Elsie. Every single day I wake up next to you, I can't believe you're mine."
"Believe it," I agree, rising up on my toes to press a kiss to his lips. "You’re stuck with me."
He kisses me back, soft and sweet and full of promise, and for a moment, the world narrows down to just the two of us.
"Daddy! Mommy! Gross!"
We pull apart to find both girls staring at us, identical expressions of disgust on their faces.
"We’re in public," Ember reminds us.
"There's no one here but us," Beckett points out, though he's grinning.
"Still!" Jessie Anne says. "It's embarrassing!"
"Get used to it, girls," I tell them, leaning into Beckett's side. "Your daddy is very kissable. I can't help myself."
Beckett's chest rumbles with laughter. "Damn right, I am."
"Daddy said a bad word!" Ember crows.
"Language," I say, but I'm laughing, too.
We spend another hour at the lake. The girls don't catch any more fish.
Jessie Anne swears something nibbled at her line, and Ember spends twenty minutes convinced she's hooked a "giant lake monster" that turns out to be a submerged branch.
But they laugh, and they learn, and they beg to come back next weekend.
As we're packing up, Beckett pulls me aside one more time. The girls are ahead of us on the path, chattering excitedly about their fishing adventure, already planning what they'll do differently next time.
He turns his head to press a kiss to my wrist, right where my pulse beats. "I love you, Hot Doc."
"I love you, too, hottie."
We walk back to the car hand in hand, our daughters dancing ahead of us, the sun beginning to set over River Bend Lake. Life doesn’t get any better than this.
The end of The Hot Brothers!
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