Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92777 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92777 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
His eyes danced as he picked up a curl and attempted to push it back, unsuccessfully. “You don’t deal in half measures, do you?”
“No. That’s the problem. It’s why I’ve kept moving. Because when I stop—”
“Haven, I’m kidding.” He smiled softly. “I love you too. I’m in love with you. For the first time in my life. I had to lose everything to figure out what’s important…what I want.” His lips tipped, eyes gentled. “What I’ve had all along and what’s still mine, even when it seems like I have nothing. What I hope to share with you if you’ll let me.”
My heart soared and I leaned in, kissing him on his beautiful mouth. I was ready. Ready to grasp happiness, moments at least, and whole seasons if I was able and life allowed. I wanted my life to count, not just be an endless cycle of struggle and survival. I was ready to risk, to trust, to stay in one place, to glory in the warmth of summer, to feel the subtle shift as fall arrived, to snuggle into winter, and watch with bated breath for the new green of spring breaking through the cold and the hard.
“You want children?” he asked, breaking from my lips, as if those words had just registered.
“A whole brood of them. I want roots. Noise. Chaos,” I admitted, because in for a penny, in for a pound, and the way he was looking at me made me believe he’d move heaven and earth to make all my dreams come true.
“Define brood,” he said on a grin.
“Ten. Twelve.”
Travis laughed, the sound filled with joy. “We better get started then. No time to waste.”
I grinned back. “But before that, you have some dating to do.” Because as much as I loved the idea of noise, and roots, and broods of whiskey-eyed Hale boys, I first wanted more blueberry festivals, and antique fairs, and moonlit lake rendezvous with the gorgeous man looking at me with love. I wanted morning upon morning where I woke first and marveled at his slumbering beauty in the still light of dawn. And I was determined to do it without that knot of fear in my belly.
“Oh, I’ll date you, Haven from California. I’m going to date the hell out of you. No one will have been dated harder in the history—”
I planted my lips on his and he laughed against my mouth as he swooped me up in his arms.
And in my mind, the future appeared, and it was incredibly, brilliantly bright.
Epilogue
Travis
Three Years Later
The breeze rustled the trees, the scent of ripened fruit sweetening the air. I looked out to the horizon, where the first wash of lavender spread across the sky, casting the water a deep purplish blue. A smile tilted my lips as I raised an arm, wiping the sweat that had gathered on my brow. It’d been a long Saturday spent digging in the dirt.
“Hey, handsome,” my wife said, coming up behind me and encircling my waist. “How’s my hardworking man?”
I turned, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and kissing her temple, careful not to rub my sweaty, probably dirt-smeared face in her hair. “Filthy,” I said.
“Don’t I know it,” she murmured, raising her eyes suggestively. “That’s how we ended up in this predicament.” She smirked, running a hand over her swollen stomach.
I grinned. Damn right. She was due any day now. It was a boy. Naturally. We’d named him Ryder. Pride swelled. I was going to have a son.
While I still had a regular job—the town had voted and generously decided to keep me as chief of police three years before, even after I’d made public my manifesto of shame—Haven and I wanted to accomplish the work of getting her nursery turned over for the changing of seasons before our little guy made his grand entrance. It was an all-hands-on-deck weekend at Haven’s Gate, Plant and Garden Center.
“It looks amazing,” Haven said, glancing around at the tiers of violets, dianthus, rosemary, ornamental peppers, and kale and over to the neat rows of young trees. Easton, Archer, and I had unloaded them just that afternoon, arranging them by type and height. “Thank you.” I knew the small frown that followed was only due to the fact that she wanted to be involved with more of the heavy lifting than her body was currently allowing for. But if I knew my wife, she’d be back at it soon enough, a baby boy strapped to her chest as she helped some client or another plan the perfect garden.
“You’re welcome,” I said, kissing her again, inhaling her intoxicating fragrance, sweeter than any flower that had ever graced this nursery.
In the two and a half years since the garden center had opened, it had grown exponentially. It wasn’t only a wildly successful business, it was a place to gather. To plant the future. To encourage roots, deep and strong. Haven’s Gate had hay rides in the fall and fruit-picking in the summer. In the winter we sold Christmas trees and wreaths, and Bree made trays of hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows. And in the springtime, we started all over again, lilac bushes and new dogwood trees filling the old red barn that protected them from the frost until they were ready to find permanent ground. And though I only helped out on weekends and when necessary, it was soul-nurturing work, joyful and fulfilling.