EPILOGUE II
FIVE YEARS LATER
Elise
The babysitter’s taillights disappear down the driveway, and I lean back against the front door with my eyes closed.
Silence.
Blessed, beautiful silence.
“Are they asleep?” Grant’s voice comes from the stairs.
“All three. Checked twice.” I open my eyes. He’s standing there in the dress shirt from dinner, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. Still unfairly hot after five years and three kids. “Mia tried to negotiate for another story, but I held firm.”
“That’s my girl.” He crosses to me, slides his hands around my waist. “The negotiating or the holding firm?”
“Both.”
The twins—Mia and Mason—just turned three last month. Mason’s named after Grant’s brother, and the resemblance is so strong sometimes it makes my chest tight. Same ice-blue eyes, same stubborn jaw, same way of tilting his head when he’s thinking.
Mia’s got Grant’s coloring too, but my attitude. Which means we’re in for a fun teenage years situation.
And then there’s Charlie. Nine months old, all chubby cheeks and Jordie’s dimples and this laugh that sounds exactly like his dad’s.
I love them so much it’s physically painful sometimes. But also—
“I’m exhausted,” I say against Grant’s chest.
“I know.”
“Like bone-deep, haven’t-slept-through-the-night-in-three-years exhausted.”
“I know.”
“Charlie’s teething again. Mia’s in a hitting phase. Mason won’t eat anything that’s not shaped like a dinosaur.”
“I know, baby.” His hand slides into my hair. Gentle. Grounding. “But we got four whole hours without them tonight. That’s like a vacation.”
It was. Dinner at that Italian place downtown. Wine. Adult conversation. No one screaming or throwing food or needing their diaper changed.
It was perfect.
The front door opens behind us, and Wyatt walks in carrying takeout bags, Jordie right behind him jangling the car keys.
“Forgot these in the car,” Jordie announces, holding up my purse. “You’re welcome.”
“Also grabbed dessert,” Wyatt adds. “That tiramisu you were eyeing.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“We know.” Jordie’s grin is pure trouble. “But we did anyway.”
Grant’s arms tighten around my waist. Possessive. “You guys took long enough.”
“There was a line at the bakery,” Wyatt says.
“At nine PM?”
“It’s a good bakery.”
I turn in Grant’s arms to look at both of them.
Wyatt’s in dark jeans and the henley I bought him last Christmas.
Even two years out of professional hockey, he’s still built like he could step back on the ice tomorrow.
Jordie’s in a button-down and khakis, looking rumpled and gorgeous in that way only he can pull off.
Wyatt retired from the NHL two years ago. His body couldn’t take it anymore—too many hits, too many injuries, the PTSD getting worse instead of better. He coaches now. Youth hockey at the community center twenty minutes from here, and he’s so good at it I sometimes catch him smiling at practice.
Actually smiling. Teeth and everything.
Grant and Jordie still play for Washington. Grant’s talking about retirement in a year or two. Jordie says he’s got at least three more seasons in him, but his knee’s been bothering him lately, so we’ll see.
And me? I’m a pediatrician now. I share a practice with another doctor so I can work part-time. Three days a week in the office, the rest with the chaos crew at home.
It’s good. Really good.
Exhausting. But good.
“Come on.” Grant’s steering me toward the stairs. “Bedroom.”
“The tiramisu—”
“Can wait,” Wyatt says. He’s already following us up. “This can’t.”
“Presumptuous much?”
“After five years?” Jordie’s right behind Wyatt. “Yeah. Very presumptuous.”
We make it to the bedroom, and I’m already reaching for my zipper when Jordie speaks.
“So. Baby number four.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Hear me out—”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“Because I know where this is going.” I turn to face all three of them. “And the answer is no.”
“But Charlie’s nine months,” Jordie continues like I didn’t just shut him down. “Perfect spacing. And Wyatt hasn’t gotten a turn yet.”
Wyatt’s staring at him. “Did you seriously just say that?”
“What? I’m just saying—”
“Stop talking.”
Grant’s watching this unfold with barely concealed amusement.
I point at him. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m not encouraging anyone.”
“You’re smirking.”
“I’m not—” He stops. “Okay, I’m smirking a little.”
“No one,” I say very clearly, “is putting any more babies in me until Charlie is at least two. Minimum.”
“But—”
“No buts, Jordie. I love our kids. All three of them. So much it physically hurts sometimes. But I’m running on four hours of sleep.
My body is still recovering from nine months of breastfeeding.
Yesterday, Mason asked me why dinosaurs don’t live in our backyard and I had to explain extinction while Mia was using my leg as a jungle gym and Charlie was screaming because he dropped his pacifier. ”
Grant’s trying not to laugh now. Failing.
“So no,” I continue. “No more babies. Not for a long while. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Wyatt says. He shoots Jordie a look. “Read the room.”
But Grant’s watching me with something soft in his expression. Something that makes my chest feel too tight.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just—” He crosses to me. Cups my face. “You’re a good mom.”
“I’m a tired mom.”
“You’re both.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “You’re amazing with them. I know it’s not—I know we’re a lot.”
“You are a lot.”
“But you still love us.”
“Unfortunately.”
His smile is small. Real. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you love us.”
“You’re so needy.”
“Elise.”
I roll my eyes. But I’m smiling. “I love you. All three of you. Even when Jordie’s talking about getting me pregnant again when I specifically said no.”
“For now,” Jordie adds. “No more babies for now.”
Wyatt’s hand finds mine. Squeezes. “We love you too. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Good.” He pulls me closer. Steps behind me so I’m bracketed between him and Grant. “Now let us show you.”
Grant’s already working my zipper down. Slow. Deliberate. His ice-blue eyes never leaving mine.
“You’ve been tense all night.”
“I’m always tense. Three kids under four will do that.”
“Exactly.” Jordie’s shedding his jacket, loosening his tie the rest of the way. “Which is why you need to relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re wound tighter than I am before playoffs,” Grant says.
“That’s not possible.”
“It’s absolutely possible.”
Wyatt’s hands are on my shoulders now. Working at the knots that have taken up permanent residence there. “Let us take care of you.”
And this—this is why it works. Why, after five years and three kids and all the chaos that would break normal people, we’re still solid.
Because they notice. They pay attention. They make me feel like even exhausted and covered in spit-up and running on fumes, I’m still the most important thing in their world.
My dress hits the floor.
Grant’s hands are reverent. Tracing the stretch marks on my hips like they’re something precious. “Beautiful.”
“I’ve had three kids. There are stretch marks and—”
“Perfect,” Wyatt interrupts. His lips are on my shoulder. “You’re perfect.”
“Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Jordie adds. He’s down to his boxer briefs now, shameless as always. “Then and now.”
“You guys are ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you,” Grant says.
We move to the bed—the custom king that actually fits all four of us.
Grant’s touch is possessive. Claiming. The way his hands grip my hips, the way he looks at the other two touching me like he’s cataloging every moment.
“Mine,” he says. Not to me. To them. A statement and a reminder.
“Ours,” Jordie corrects with a grin.
Grant doesn’t argue. Just kisses me like he’s proving a point.
Wyatt’s different. Quieter. More controlled. His hands are steady as they map my body, relearning curves that have changed with pregnancy and time.
“Still so responsive,” he murmurs against my neck. “After everything. After all of it.”
Jordie’s enthusiasm hasn’t dimmed even slightly. “Can I just say—and I know this is probably not the sexy talk you’re looking for—but you’re handling motherhood like a boss, and it’s incredibly hot.”
I’m laughing. Can’t help it. “That’s the worst dirty talk I’ve ever heard.”
“Worth a shot.”
Grant’s mouth is on my collarbone. “Stop making her laugh. I’m trying to seduce her.”
“You’re always trying to seduce her.”
“And I’m very good at it.”
“Debatable.”
I’m still laughing when Grant’s hand slides between my thighs and—
Oh.
Okay. Not laughing anymore.
“That’s better,” he says against my skin.
What follows is—it’s different than it was five years ago. Slower in some ways. More intense in others. Like we’ve learned exactly what each other needs and how to give it.
There’s no rush. No desperation. Just the four of us learning each other all over again.
Grant’s possessive streak is in full force. The way he watches Wyatt’s hands on me, the way he positions himself, the way he says “mine” like it’s a prayer and a promise.
Wyatt’s praise never stops. Telling me I’m beautiful, perfect, strong. That watching me with our kids makes him fall in love all over again every single day.
And Jordie. Still all enthusiasm and playfulness and “holy hell, how did I get this lucky?”
They worship me. Take me apart piece by piece and put me back together.
And when it’s over—when we’re tangled together, breathless and satisfied and so full of love I can barely contain it—Grant pulls me against his chest.
“You okay?”
“Better than okay.”
Jordie’s already half asleep on my other side. Wyatt’s at the foot of the bed, one hand on my ankle like he needs the contact.
“We should do this more often,” I say.
“Date night?” Grant’s voice is rough.
“Yeah. Get out. Remember we’re people, not just parents.”
“Agreed,” Wyatt says.
“Every week,” Jordie mumbles.
“Who’s paying the babysitter?”
“You. Captain Money.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It’s exactly how this works.”
I’m laughing again. Can’t help it.
This is my life now.
Three kids. Three men. One chaotic, beautiful, impossible family.
Downstairs, the baby monitor crackles.
Charlie’s awake.
“Your turn,” I tell Grant.
“I got him last night.”
“And I had him at two, four, and six this morning.”
He’s already getting up. “Fair point.”
He pulls on sweats and heads for the nursery. I listen to his footsteps in the hall, the sound of Charlie’s crying quieting as Grant picks him up.
“Hey buddy,” Grant’s voice comes through the monitor. Soft. “What’s wrong? Bad dream?”
Charlie makes incomprehensible baby noises.
“Yeah, I get those too. Want me to tell you a story?”
More noises.
“Okay. Once upon a time, there was a guy who thought he’d destroyed everything good in his life. But then he met this girl who was way too smart for him, and two idiots who became his family, and three kids who made everything make sense…”
I close my eyes. Let Grant’s voice wash over me. Let Jordie’s warmth beside me and Wyatt’s hand in mine anchor me.
This is home.
They’re home.
And I wouldn’t change a single thing.
* * *
Thank you so much for reading!