Epilogue
Rhett
Six years later
My arms are moving at a furious pace, but my legs are barely moving. “Come back here.”
A chorus of voices echoes in the backyard in protest as they run in a circle.
“I’m going to catch you.” I roar like a lion before pounding my chest like a silverback gorilla.
The little voices yell louder before their tiny legs carry them across the lawn.
“You can’t run away from me.” I stare down at the puppies at my feet. “Stark. Ziggy. Go get ‘em!” I point to the bunch of little people who think they can escape from me.
Nothing.
I point with more determination.
That’s not enough to rally the troops.
Our eight-week-old black and white pups stare up at me, tilting their heads from side to side.
“You’re supposed to attack on command,” I say.
If they don’t roll on the grass, playing with each other.
Good grief.
“Ah, forget it. I’ll do it myself.” I scoop up the puppies and carry them as I trot after my kids. “I’m coming for you.”
They let out piercing shrieks.
You’d think someone’s trying to murder them. Never mind we’ve played this game a million times. From their unfiltered reaction, you’d think it was the first.
Carina steps outside.
“MOOOOMMY!” All three boys crash into her, before hiding behind her. They’re giggling like crazy.
The fourth child trips.
Uh, oh.
For a few seconds, she stares up, startled. Then, she bursts out in a hysterical laughter.
She isn’t hurt.
Still, I’ll send my soldiers anyway.
I drop the puppies to the ground. “Go help her up.”
Stark and Ziggy charge towards our daughter. She giggles even more when the pups lick her beautiful face.
“Hey, darlin’.” I wave, a smile the size of Texas stretching my lips.
My wife places her hands on her hips. “Rhett Sullivan Jones Blanchard, what are you thinking?”
We all went to church this morning. She traded the pretty pink Sunday dress for a yellow V-neck maxi dress with a floral pattern, which only emphasizes her growing belly. Her long dark hair is piled on top of her head, leaving her beautiful face unframed.
“They’re going to be all worked up,” she says. “You know they’re a handful. At this rate, we’ll never be able to convince them to take a nap after lunch.”
“Mrs. Sullivan Jones Blanchard, in my defense, I haven’t seen them in over a week. I miss my rambunctious rugrats.”
Six months after meeting my grandparents, I decided to change my last name. As an orphan, I thought my girl’s huge family was a bonus of falling in love with her. Finding out I have two large families in Texas changed my life.
Opting for a triple-barreled last name was for my kids and the generations to come.
The Jones and the Blanchard families are prominent in this state and their blood run through my children’s veins.
Combined, grandma Lore’s and grandpa Warren’s fortunes are north of a billion dollars. And that just blows my mind.
Grandpa Warren’s lawyers did all the legal heavy lifting to get the name change in the official records. I just had to take a DNA test and sign a lot of papers. The triple-barreled name is a mouthful. Granted, pretty much everybody still calls me Rhett Sullivan.
Since it all happened before I got married, it didn’t affect Carina. She took my new name when she became my wife.
Once that was done, my grandparents added me to the boards of their businesses. I even have a trust fund now. I went from an average guy to becoming part of two dynasties in a New York minute.
Grandpa suggested I join one of the many businesses he owns. I declined. Grandma told me I could work alongside my aunts and cousins. Once again, I declined.
I don’t know anything about wheeling and dealing. My grandparents’ businesses have been operating well without me for longer than I’ve been alive. There’s not much I’d be adding of value.
I sit in on board meetings whenever I can. I’ve learned a ton. My goal is to pass that knowledge onto my kids. As they grow up, they’ll have many options available to them.
As for me, six years later, and I’m still an in-demand model for a number of products.
The list is too long to enumerate, but the money I’ve made so far trumps anything I could’ve made on the rodeo circuit.
That says a lot, considering at the height of my career I earned half a million dollars a year.
My face––and body––has also graced the covers of several hundred romance books. It’s mind-blowing.
I gave up working at the ranch three months after I got engaged.
I couldn’t fit everything in. And I didn’t need the money.
I was making more than enough with my modeling gigs, and that’s before the monthly payments from my trust funds started kicking in.
I didn’t know how long I was going to be able to ride the modeling wave, but I was determined to milk it for all it’s worth.
I’ve not only upgraded my career, I’ve also upgraded my home with a new ranch stretching over thousands of acres.
I bought a lot of reclaimed wood and old vintage fixtures from century-old buildings in neighboring towns that were being torn down or renovated.
With the addition of modern touches, the farmhouse is the perfect blend of vintage and contemporary.
This is where my heart beats.
Our ranch is located not too far from Grandpa Warren’s sprawling estate.
He wanted to build us a ranch within the gates of his property, but I refused.
It’s not that I didn’t want to live with the rest of my family, but given the number of photographers I work with, it could’ve compromised on their privacy.
I don’t have to travel as much anymore. Nowadays, photographers flock down here. I have a large dedicated barn set up as a state-of-the-art studio for photography.
Not to mention, you can’t beat the picturesque setting Summerville has to offer. Not even the most talented set designer can recreate this level of authenticity. No siree. Mother Nature’s magical hands are all over the beauty stretching outside my door. No Photoshop needed.
These days, my modeling career is no longer full-time. When I’m not in front of the camera, I train horses––another reason to upgrade the ranch. I’m damn good at it and it keeps me working with the animals I love. Jake and Hunter are among my many clients.
I don’t need to work, but I’d go stir-crazy if I didn’t. It makes me a better man, husband, and father.
“I understand you miss the kids, but that’s not a good enough reason to get them this excited, Rhett.”
Carina brings me back to the moment.
“I’m sorry, wife.” I wink.
She shakes her head. “I swear to God, I’m not going to make it with two more.”
“You’re not alone in this,” I say. “My grandparents are a short drive away, the Callahans are a flight away, you have four little helpers, and a big strong one—me.”
“Maybe it’s not too late to return these babies to the factory.” She points at her round stomach.
“Wash your mouth out with soap, woman. Want it or not, the twins are coming out.”
“I can’t take two more boys.”
Our little clan is growing.
“More boys. More boys. More boys.” Our son Marlon chants as he marches in place like a soldier.
“No, no, no.” Our daughter Emmylou shakes her head. “Girl power. Girl power. Girl power.” She chants in her toddler voice.
Girl power is her new motto. I blame Erika—Riley’s daughter. There’s a reason Emmylou is sporting a yellow tutu and a baseball cap backward. She’s even sporting tiny kneepads. It’s her go-to outfit of the week after church.
Our baby girl is convinced she wants to be a ballerina and a professional baseball player when she grows up. I’m not about to crush her dreams.
A couple weeks ago, she wanted to own all the banks in the country and be President at the same time. Erika is training her to become a boss lady.
“No, it’s not––”
“Settle down, kids.” I interrupt Marlon. “We’ll have more girls later to even out the score.”
I love Carina pregnant.
I love to see these little people who are a perfect blend of both of us––a reflection of our love—running around carefree.
I love knowing we’re creating this incredible family together.
And my God, I love her body when she’s expecting… especially those swollen tits. Damn, I could spend my life latching onto her heavy tits after she gives birth.
Carina’s breasts were something else before the pregnancies, but now… they’re spectacular.
I pretty much only fuck her while she straddles me so I can get an eyeful of her heavy tits swinging all over the place as I thrust into her pussy.
And when she sucks on her nipple while I’m worshiping her pussy, that’s a guarantee I’ll come like a fucking animal.
I’m all for more kids.
Such wishful thinking could be the equivalent of signing my own death warrant––or at the very least, a detriment to the family jewels––but what the hell. As a former rodeo star, I have balls of steel.
“More girls?” Carina scoffs. “I don’t think so.” She wags a motherly finger at me. “After these two, it’s over. No more babies for you, Rhett Sullivan.”
In the early days of her pregnancy with the triplets, she was gung-ho on doing it all.
The boys wouldn’t have it.
She had to give up working at Happy Belly when she was four months pregnant. It was too much. She shifted her attention to her popular website and top-rated YouTube cooking channel. Her audience loved keeping track of her new recipes—and the pregnancy’s progress.
As her belly kept getting bigger and bigger, it was more difficult for her to muster up the desire to maintain a regimented production schedule. Eventually, her attention waned.
Once the boys were born, her focus was solely on our kids.
From day one, I was a fully committed and involved dad, but we were outnumbered. Even with help from my grandparents, her family, and the people I hired to lighten her load, it was a lot to handle.
The theory that multiple births skip a generation doesn’t apply to us.