Epilogue II
Five Years Later
Dean
She’s crying again.
Not the angry, hungry cry, but the soft, hiccupy one that means bad dreams. I’m out of bed before my brain catches up, bare feet on the cold hardwood, muscle memory guiding me down the hall.
“Hey, sweet girl.”
Emma’s sitting up in her crib, tears on her cheeks, clutching the stuffed goat Nadine gave her. (Yes, a goat. Yes, I protested. Yes, I lost.)
“Dada.”
One word. It wrecks me every time.
“Yeah, baby. Daddy’s here.” I scoop her up, and she melts into my chest. Eighteen months old, and she already has me wrapped around her tiny finger. “Bad dream?”
She nods against my shoulder, still sniffling, her breath warm against my neck.
“Want to tell me about it?”
“No.” Firm. Decisive. She already knows what she wants.
“Okay.” I don’t push. We have time for that later.
I carry her to the rocking chair Poppy insisted on. Said every nursery needs one. I argued about cost per use; she won by being pregnant.
Emma curls into me, thumb in mouth, breathing still shaky. I rock, hum something tuneless, and wait.
This is my favorite part of fatherhood. Not the fun stuff—though watching her chase George III (don’t ask) around the yard is pretty great. But this: the weight of her trust, the way she fits perfectly in the crook of my arm, the absolute certainty that I’d burn the world down to keep her safe.
“Better?”
She nods but doesn’t move, burrowing deeper. We’ve got time.
Through the window, I can see the guest cottage. The light’s still on. Poppy’s probably up planning the Summers wedding, the Dayton anniversary, or any of the dozen events that make up our beautifully chaotic life.
“Mama?” Emma asks, voice small and sleepy.
“Working. But she’ll come kiss you soon.” I adjust her weight, keeping her secure.
“‘Kay.” She accepts this easily, trusting.
She’s getting heavy in that way that means sleep’s winning. I should put her back in the crib. I should go back to bed. I should do a lot of things.
Instead, I keep rocking.
“Love you, Emmy girl.”
“Wuv you, Dada.”
And damn. There it is. The thing that breaks me every time.
Twenty minutes later, Poppy finds us. I hear her before I see her—bare feet on hardwood, that little sigh she makes when she sees us.
“Hey,” she whispers, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey yourself.” I keep rocking, not wanting to disturb Emma.
She kneels beside the chair, running her fingers through Emma’s curls with infinite gentleness. “She woke up?”
“Bad dream.” I keep my voice low and soothing.
She gives me that look. The one that says I’ve gone soft, but she loves me anyway.
“Come on.” She eases Emma from my arms with practiced precision. Our girl doesn’t even stir. “Bed. Both of you.”
I watch Poppy tuck Emma in, smoothing the blanket, adjusting the goat just so, kissing her forehead with such tenderness it makes my chest ache.
Back in our room, Poppy pulls me into bed, immediately curling into my side. Her spot. It has been since that first night in Italy when we decided to blow up our lives for each other.
“Missed you,” she murmurs into my chest.
“You saw me three hours ago.” But I’m already wrapping my arms around her.
“Still missed you.” She presses closer, seeking warmth.
I pull her closer. She’s cold—always is when she works late. I run my hands down her back, trying to warm her up.
“Dayton anniversary?” I guess, feeling her relax into me.
“Mm. They want doves.” There’s exhaustion in her voice.
“‘Course they do.” I kiss the top of her head.
“Told them we’d discuss alternatives.” She yawns against my shoulder.
“Good girl.”
She laughs softly, the sound vibrating through me. “Remember when you tried to ban all livestock from events?”
“Tried being the operative word.” I’m smiling into the darkness.
We’re quiet for a minute, just breathing together. These are my favorite moments—when the world stops and it’s just us. No depositions. No timelines. No negotiations with terrorist toddlers.
Just us.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?” I’m already half-asleep, her warmth making me drowsy.
“What were you thinking about? In the chair with Emma?”
I consider lying, saying something flip. But it’s almost midnight, and she’s in my arms, and tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
“How I never thought I’d have this.”
She props up on an elbow, looking down at me in the dim light. “This?”
“You. Her. The whole… thing.” I gesture vaguely at the room, at our life. “Family. The real kind. Not the performance my parents put on.”
“Dean—” She starts, but I need to finish.
“I was so scared when you were pregnant.” The admission comes out rough, caught in my throat. “I kept thinking I’d mess it up. Be like my dad. Cold. Distant. More interested in winning than… than being there.”
“But you’re not.” Her hand finds my chest, palm flat over my heart.
“Because of you.” I cover her hand with mine.
“No.” Her hand finds my face in the dark, cupping my cheek. “Because of you. Because you chose differently. Every day, you choose her. Choose us.”
“Easy choice.” The easiest I’ve ever made.
She kisses me—soft, sweet. My body notices.
“You need sleep,” I tell her, even as I pull her closer.
“In a minute.” She settles against me, fitting perfectly.
“Poppy—” I start to protest, but she cuts me off.
“Just… let me stay here a minute. With you. Like this.”
So I do. I hold her while her breathing evens out, while the house settles around us, while our daughter dreams whatever perfect dreams toddlers have.
“Love you,” she whispers, mostly asleep.
“Love you too, disaster.”
“Your disaster.” Her words are slurred with sleep.
“The only one I want.”
She’s out between one breath and the next. I should sleep too. Big day tomorrow—deposition at nine, Emma’s playdate at two, dinner with Mason and Ivy.
But for now, I just hold her—my wife, the mother of my child, the woman who crashed into my life with a goat and rebuilt me from the ground up.
Worth every sleepless night.
Worth everything.
Emma’s awake.
Not crying. Just… talking. Full conversations with her goat about God knows what.
“Your turn,” Poppy mumbles, face buried in her pillow.
“How’s it my turn? I did three AM.” I’m already sitting up, rubbing my eyes.
“Exactly. I do mornings after you do nights.” She doesn’t even open her eyes.
“That’s not the system.” But I’m already swinging my legs out of bed.
“It’s exactly the system.” She pulls the blanket over her head.
“Since when?” I’m standing now, looking for my sweatpants.
“Since I’m tired and you’re whipped.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
Can’t argue with that logic. I crack a smile despite the hour.
I find Emma standing in her crib, goat in one hand, my reading glasses in the other. Her hair sticks up in a dozen wild directions, eyes bright as if she’s already plotted half the day.
“Where did you—never mind.” I lift her out, feeling her solid weight in my arms. “Morning, criminal.”
“Hi, Dada!” Like the sun coming out. Every damn time.
“Hungry?” I carry her toward the kitchen.
“Uh-huh.” She’s already bouncing in my arms.
“What do we want? Pancakes? Eggs? The souls of our enemies?” I’m heading down the hall now.
She giggles, delighted by the routine. “‘Nanas!”
“Bananas it is. But first, diaper.” I set her on the changing table.
“No.” Immediate. Decisive.
“Yes.” I reach for a fresh diaper.
“No no no.” She’s already wiggling away.
“Emma Jane—” I use my warning voice.
She takes off running—in a diaper that definitely needs changing. Clutching my glasses and cackling like a tiny villain. Her feet slap the hardwood, goat bouncing at her side, my heart already bursting at the seams.
This is my life now—chasing a half-naked toddler who’s apparently part track star, part goat, all Poppy.
I catch her by the kitchen. She shrieks with laughter as I swing her up.
“Gotcha.” I’m breathless, which is embarrassing.
“Again!” She’s beaming, hair even wilder now.
“After diaper.” I hold her at arm’s length, assessing the damage.
Her nose wrinkles in that way that’s pure Poppy. “No diaper!”
“Yes diaper.” I give her my best lawyer glare, which only makes her smirk wider.
“Negotiate!” She announces it proudly, like she’s discovered fire.
I stop, blink. “What?”
She grins, pure mischief. “Nego-she-ate!”
“Who taught you—” I cut myself off. Stupid question. I can practically hear Poppy cackling from the bedroom. “Fine. Terms?”
“Two ‘nanas.” She holds up two fingers, confident.
“One banana.” I hold up one, matching her energy.
Her tiny fist shoots into the air. “Two!”
“One and a half,” I counter, already knowing I’m sunk.
She considers it, her tiny brow furrowed in concentration. “Deal.”
I’m negotiating fruit portions with someone who can’t tie shoes—and losing.
“Good job, baby. Now diaper.” I carry her back to the changing table.
“Dada?” She’s looking up at me with those eyes.
“Yeah?” I’m already melting, diaper in hand.
“Love you.”
And there it is—the daily destruction of Dean Whitaker, Attorney at Law.
“Love you too, monster. More than all the bananas in the world.” I kiss her forehead, breathing in her baby shampoo smell.
She pats my face with sticky hands. “Silly Dada.”
Yeah. The silliest.
And the happiest.
Who knew?
~
Thank you so much for reading Dean and Poppy’s story!
Opposites. Relentless flirting. A hero who refuses to give up. And a heroine who very much did not plan on falling for him.