Epilogue
Tarryn-Eight years later…
T he morning light spills through floor-to-ceiling windows, washing our bedroom in gold. I stretch languidly, not loving the dull ache in my muscles from yesterday's moving efforts.
Eight years since we reunited at Blake Financial, four since we left New York's relentless pace behind, and today marks our first official morning in the home we designed together—built on the very daisy field where our story began.
"Jack?" I call out, my voice still husky with sleep. My hand reaches across the mattress, finding only rumpled sheets where my husband should be.
I ease myself up, one hand instinctively cradling the pronounced swell of my belly.
At six months pregnant, my movements have slowed, become more deliberate.
Our son, who we've yet to officially name, though Jackson keeps lobbying for Thor, tumbles inside me, an early morning somersault that sends a jolt of pain through my ribs.
“Oh.” I wince, standing up. The scent of coffee draws me from our bedroom, down the hallway where framed photographs line walls still waiting for the perfect paint color.
Jackson and me outside our New York apartment. Jackson and me at our wedding in this very daisy field five years ago. Daisy’s birth three years back and the groundbreaking for this house just months ago. Each image a milestone in a journey that began when we were just teenagers.
I pad down the stairs, the cool hardwood against my bare feet.
It feels so good to finally be out of the cramped rental we’ve been living in the last several months.
Our home is exactly as we dreamed it would be.
It’s modern yet warm, with soaring ceilings and windows that offer a breathtaking view of our daisy field.
The heart of the house is the open kitchen where I find my husband now, his back to me as he stands at the stove, moving with practiced ease among boxes still waiting to be unpacked.
Jackson hasn't heard me yet. He's flipping pancakes while our daughter perches on a stool at the kitchen island, her little legs swinging as she carefully arranges blueberries into smiley faces.
At three, Daisy is a perfect fusion of us.
My chestnut hair and Jackson's piercing blue eyes. His height and my… as Jackson likes to put it, mommy’s sassy little attitude.
"More booberries, Daddy," she demands, her small hand extended.
"What's the magic word, princess?" Jackson asks, his voice carrying that particular softness he reserves only for our daughter.
She has him wrapped around her little finger already, something that I fully expect to turn into a raging problem someday.
But for now, I just savor these little moments together.
"Please," she responds with exaggerated sweetness that makes me bite back a laugh.
I lean against the doorframe, drinking in the scene.
The morning light catches in Jackson's dark hair, illuminating threads of silver that have begun to appear at his temples.
He's wearing nothing but low-slung pajama bottoms, the muscles of his back shifting beneath golden skin with each movement.
The sight still makes my pulse quicken, my body responding to him with embarrassing immediacy even after all these years.
"Are you going to stand there staring all morning, Counselor?" Jackson asks without turning around, somehow sensing my presence the way he always has.
"Just enjoying the view," I reply, moving toward them. "Hard to believe this is really ours now."
He turns, spatula in hand, his eyes warming as they trail over me in his old Harvard Law t-shirt that stretches across my pregnant belly. His gaze leaves heat blooming across my skin.
"Believe it," he says, setting down the spatula and crossing to me. His hands frame my face before he presses his lips to mine in a kiss that still carries the electric charge of our first. "Welcome home, Mrs. Hayes."
"Wells-Hayes," I correct automatically, using our ancient, comfortable argument.
"Mommy!" Daisy squeals, finally noticing me. She scrambles down from her stool and rushes over, wrapping her arms around my legs. "Daddy's making happy pancakes!"
I run my fingers through her soft curls. "I see that, sweetie. They look delicious."
"Baby brudder like pancakes?" she asks, placing her small hand against my belly with curiosity.
"I think he does," I tell her, covering her hand with mine. "He's doing somersaults this morning."
Jackson's hand joins ours, spanning my stomach with splayed fingers. As if responding to his father's touch, our son kicks firmly against his palm.
"Strong legs," Jackson says with pride. "Future soccer player."
"Or dancer," I counter, raising an eyebrow.
"Or both," he concedes with a laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to my belly. "Good morning, little man." Then he straightens, eyes dancing with mischief. "How about we have breakfast on the deck? First meal in our new home should be special."
"Yes!" Daisy bounces with excitement. "Can I bring Princess TuTu?" she asks, referring to the stuffed ballerina mouse Ellie gave her for her birthday.
"Of course," Jackson answers. "It's a family breakfast. Everyone's invited."
I watch as Daisy races to retrieve her treasured companion, then turn to Jackson. "Need help?"
"Just grab the coffee," he replies, flipping the last pancake onto a platter. "I've got the rest."
We carry breakfast out to the expansive deck that overlooks the daisy field in full summer bloom—a sea of white and gold swaying in the morning breeze.
Last night we'd been too exhausted from moving to fully appreciate the view, but now, in the clarity of morning light, the panorama takes my breath away.
This field, our field, now fills the view from our home, just as we'd dreamed the day Jackson proposed.
"It's perfect," I whisper, setting down the coffee mugs on the outdoor table.
Jackson's arm slides around my waist, his hand splaying possessively across the small of my back. "Better than we imagined, right?"
"So much better."
His fingers trace circles against my skin through the thin cotton, a subtle touch that sends shivers cascading down my spine. Even though we've been together for years now, his touch still electrifies me, still makes my breath catch and my pulse quicken.
Daisy returns with her toy, climbing onto her special chair, a mini Adirondack painted sunflower yellow that my father made for her. We settle around the table, this new tradition in our new home feeling so special.
"We should have a picnic in the field later," Jackson suggests, passing me the maple syrup. "Show Daisy where it all began."
"Where what began, Daddy?" Daisy asks, focused on arranging her pancake pieces into precise triangles.
"Where Mommy and Daddy fell in love," he tells her. "A very long time ago."
"Were you old?" she asks innocently.
I laugh, spearing a blueberry. "We were very young, honey. Just teenagers."
"Did you kiss?" she asks, her nose wrinkling with particular disgust.
"Eventually," Jackson answers with a wink at me. "After Mommy stopped being mad at me for stealing her biology notes."
"I was not!" I protest, then catch myself. "Okay, maybe I was a little annoyed."
"A little?" He raises an eyebrow. "You threatened to report me to the honor council."
"Well, you deserved it." I slide my foot against his beneath the table.
"Worth it," he murmurs, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that still makes my breath catch. "Got me a milkshake date with the most beautiful girl in school."
"And now we have a house!" Daisy interjects, clearly bored with our romantic reminiscing.
"Yes, baby." I laugh, stroking her hair. "Now we have a house. And you. And your little brother coming soon."
She considers this seriously. "And the daisies. We have all the daisies too."
"We certainly do," Jackson agrees, his hand finding mine across the table. "Fields and fields of them."
The afternoon sun hangs high overhead as we spread a quilt over the ground in the daisy field. Daisy runs ahead, arms outstretched as she weaves through flowers nearly as tall as she is, her laughter carried on the summer breeze.
"Careful not to go too far!" I call, lowering myself onto the blanket with considerably less grace than I possessed before pregnancy.
Jackson settles beside me, unpacking the picnic basket we've filled with sandwiches, fruit, and the chocolate peanut butter cookies he baked this morning—my pregnancy craving that he's indulged without complaint.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, his hand resting on my knee, thumb tracing circles that send warmth spiraling up my thigh.
"Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be," I answer honestly.
His fingers trail higher, teasing the sensitive skin just above my knee in a way that makes my breath hitch. "I meant physically, but I'll take that answer too."
I lean against him, my head finding that perfect spot between his shoulder and chest that feels like it was designed just for me. "Physically, I'm hot, my feet are swollen, and your son is doing kickboxing practice against my ribs. But I wouldn't change a thing."
Jackson's arm curls around me, pulling me closer. "Remember the first time we sat in this field? You were weaving daisy crowns long before I knew you’d be mine."
"And you were pretending to watch clouds while actually staring at me," I tease.
"Guilty as charged." His lips brush my temple, the contact sending a cascade of goosebumps across my skin. "You were so fiery and focused, even then. The brilliant Tarryn Wells with her perfect color-coded notes and her big plans to change the world."
"And you were the charming slacker who somehow managed top grades without seeming to try."
"I tried," he protests with a laugh. "Just not at studying. Mainly at figuring out how to get you to notice me."