Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
I laughed and flopped back onto the bed, watching as she darted naked into the bathroom, her hair wild and her heart completely mine.
And yeah—this might’ve started as a tequila-fueled detour in Vegas.
But I was pretty damn sure we were headed exactly where we were meant to go.
Epilogue 2
Gabby
Two Years Later
Grand Cayman Islands
The waves were slow and lazy that afternoon, rolling onto the shore like they had nowhere else to be. A breeze stirred off the water, soft and salty, just enough to keep the heat from being overwhelming. I lay stretched out under a striped umbrella, the sand warm beneath my towel, my hand resting lightly on the gentle rise of my stomach.
We’d found out I was pregnant the morning we left for the airport. We’d been trying for a few months—nothing tracked, no apps or alarms, just letting life happen. Still, seeing the positive test while I was brushing my teeth had knocked the air right out of me.
Webb hadn’t panicked. He’d kissed me on the forehead, calmly tucked the test into the drawer, and asked if I still wanted a window seat on the flight.
Now, two days later, we were parked on a beach in paradise, pretending we weren’t already half in love with something the size of a jellybean.
I turned to him, my sunhat low over my eyes. “Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”
Webb shifted in his chair beside me, reaching over to adjust the umbrella until it cast more shade across my midsection. I didn’t have much of a bump yet, but he’d been hovering around it like it was made of porcelain.
“I think it’ll be a girl with your mouth and my patience. Which is to say no one’s safe.”
I arched an eyebrow and sat up. “Did you seriously just move the umbrella?”
He didn’t even pretend to deny it.
“Webb, I swear, if you keep covering my stomach, I’m going to end up with a weird tan. Like some kind of sun-worshipping Neapolitan bar.”
He ignored me and grabbed his phone, tapping quickly.
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t—”
He held up a finger, reading dramatically, “‘According to a semi-reputable parenting forum, exposing your pregnant belly to the sun for more than seven minutes may result in the baby being born with an intense love of heat, extreme sarcasm, and the inability to wear pastels.’”
I glared at him. “Are you serious right now?”
He cleared his throat. “‘Also, possibly a third nipple.’”
I snorted and chucked a shell at his leg. “I refuse to be educated by Reddit and fear-mongering moms in capri pants.”
“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, lowering his phone with exaggerated disappointment. “But this is how chaos babies are born.”
A few minutes passed in silence, with only the sound of the ocean and distant seagulls. Then I heard him stand. When I cracked one eye open, he was kneeling beside me, brushing sand off his knees.
He leaned in and, and with complete sincerity, whispered to my stomach, “Please help me convince your mommy that she can’t keep doing what she’s doing in case you end up crispy.”
I laughed so hard I almost knocked over the sunscreen. But something in his voice stuck with me. There was genuine concern in it—not the dramatic, controlling kind, but the kind that comes from loving someone so much you can’t help but worry, even when it makes you look ridiculous.
I exhaled slowly and moved the umbrella back, adjusting it until the shade once again covered me.
“I don’t want a crispy baby either. But if it comes out sarcastic, that’s definitely on you.”
He grinned, and I couldn’t help reaching out and taking his hand. I wouldn’t change a damn thing about us, and I couldn’t wait to have Webb’s baby.
Flash-Forward – 7 Months Later
The Webb Residence (a.k.a. the chaos zone)
To be clear, the plan had been peace. A quiet, low-lit, candle-scented home birth, with soft music, calm breathing, a competent midwife, and Webb holding my hand, saying soothing things in his low, grumbly voice.
That plan lasted exactly thirteen minutes.
I’d just gotten into the birthing tub—trying to decide if the warm water helped or made me want to throw something—when the front door banged open, and Marcus’s voice carried down the hallway.
“Is she crowning? Do I need gloves?”
“Get out!” Webb bellowed from the hallway.
I gripped the sides of the tub and hissed through another contraction. “Tell him if he comes in here with mechanic gloves on, I’m naming the baby Marcusina.”
Webb popped back in, pale and already sweating. “He’s gone, I think.”
“He thinks,” I muttered, panting. “That man once broke into our kitchen through a window because he smelled cinnamon rolls. Lock the door.”
He disappeared again, yelling something about boundaries and family planning.
Our doula, Clara, bless her, remained calm throughout it all. She just smiled gently, checked the baby’s heart rate, and murmured words like “progressing beautifully” and “just breathe.” I wanted to hug her and also scream directly into her face.