Page 112 of A Forbidden Arrangement

She looks between us, patient but cautious. “You’re pregnant, Mrs. Everette. Early, only a few weeks, but everything looks healthy.”

That one sentence, that one word—baby—has my heart soaring, pounding a million miles a minute. The room erupts into chaos, but I only have eyes on Dahlia.

We never talked about this. I never asked what she wanted.

A knot forms in my throat as tears glisten on her cheeks. She traces slow circles over her stomach, silent and awestruck.

My breath’s knocked out of me when her chocolate eyes meet mine. They’re crinkled in the corners from the force of her smile. Radiant.

“I’m pregnant.” Her voice comes out in a reverent whisper.

She gives me a watery smile, and I kiss her. I pull back, grinning, then kiss her again. I don’t stop until she pushes against my chest, laughing.

“Enough,” she says on a laugh, breathless.

I drop to the floor and kneel in front of her, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand resting on her still-flat stomach. A tearlands on my cheek. When I glance up, she’s looking down at me, eyes full of light and tears.

I kiss her stomach again before standing and cupping her face.

“We’re having a baby.” The words come out rough and full of disbelief. I kiss her again, quick and smiling, then rest my forehead against hers. The joy is almost too much, but unease slips in at the edges. “What if I’m not a good dad?”

“You’re going to be an excellent dad.” She laughs, bright and sure, burning away every trace of doubt. “The only thing I’m worried about is you spoiling them rotten.”

“I don’t see the problem with that. My kids will get everything they want. Just like their mother.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She brushes her thumb along my jaw and smiles. “I love you.”

I kiss her again, slower this time, trying to memorize the warmth of her, the sound of her voice, the miracle she just gave me. Everything I’ve ever wanted is right here in my arms.

Epilogue

Xander

Dahlia’s hairis pulled into a messy knot at the back of her head, the sleeves of her shirt rolled past her elbows. There’s dirt on her cheek, a streak across the bridge of her nose, and I’ve never seen anything more perfect.

The greenhouse used to be abandoned and lifeless. Now it’s hers. Alive with a mix of flowers and herbs.

She hums softly, lost in her own rhythm, one hand brushing away the loose strands of hair sticking to her neck.

Our daughter, Clary, sits in my arms, her small fist clutching the edge of my shirt. It’s already clear she has Dahlia’s eyes and my stubbornness.

“Don’t eat that,” I murmur as she tries to stuff a fistful of my collar into her mouth. She squeals, unconcerned, and I grin despite myself.

Dahlia glances over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Talking to her or yourself?”

“Both.”

She laughs, the sound floating through the air. That sound used to be rare. Now it’s constant. Every day, I find new ways to keep it that way.

“Auntie Dahlia! We’re here!” Tucker comes crashing through the door, full of never-ending energy.

“It’s about time,” Dahlia says, wrapping him in a hug. “I missed you.”

“I got to go on a plane.” He beams up at her.