Page 48

Six Months Later

LARK

“ Y ou lost your phone again ?”

I didn’t answer right away because I was too busy digging through the produce bin, muttering about cosmic injustice and the black hole that was my purse.

Axel appeared in the doorway, arms folded, expression somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “That’s the third time this week. And it’s Wednesday.”

“It’s not lost,” I said, victoriously holding up a banana. “It’s… temporarily unaccounted for. Also, this isn’t my phone. Why was this banana in my purse?”

He didn’t even blink. “Because you’re you, babe. That’s why.”

I glared at him, which made him laugh. That low, deep laugh that still made me weak in the knees—especially now that I was eight months pregnant and the size of a weather balloon.

“I swear, I used to be competent,” I muttered. “Once. Long ago.”

“You’re still competent. You just operate on a… creative wavelength.”

I threw the banana at him. He caught it one-handed. Show-off.

As I shuffled to the couch, Axel followed, dropping to his knees and pressing a kiss to my belly. “Hi, little one. Mama lost her phone again. Daddy’s not surprised.”

“She’s going to come out rolling her eyes,” I said.

“She’s going to come out perfect.” He kissed my belly again, then rested his forehead there. “Also, can we talk about how you’ve packed her a storm-chasing baby bag ?”

“She’ll need one.”

“She’ll be, like… ten minutes old.”

“You can’t start prepping too early.”

He gave me a look. “You packed her a GoPro.”

I shrugged. “Content is king.”

We both burst into laughter. God, I loved him.

I loved this life. Even if my hormones made me cry at dog food commercials and Axel had a spreadsheet for everything —we were ridiculously, messily, happily in love.

Bravo slept next to the sofa, like he wasn’t listening to us.

But as soon as we said town he beat us to the truck.

“You still want to go storm chasing this spring?” he asked.

“Yep. As long as you’re carrying the diaper bag.”

“Deal. But only if you agree to stop leaving your sunglasses in the freezer.”

“I do try,” I said sweetly. “But I do love you.”

He pulled me gently into his arms, careful of the bump between us. “I love you too, Lark Martin.”

I rested my head on his shoulder and smiled.

From lost shoes and surprise tornadoes to wedding nights and babies on the way—we were just getting started.

Bonus Scene

Frasier Mountain’s Smallest Storm Chaser

AXEL

“I told you this was a bad idea,” I said, catching the pacifier just before it hit the dashboard.

Lark, beside me in the passenger seat, was furiously typing into her weather app. “It’s not a bad idea. It’s science. And technically, she’s asleep.”

I looked in the rearview mirror at our daughter—bundled in pink, cheeks round and peaceful, strapped into the most secure car seat money could buy. Her name was Scout, because of course it was. We didn’t exactly do normal.

“She’s six weeks old,” I reminded my wife. “She doesn’t even know what thunder is.”

“Exactly! We’re building early exposure. She’ll have a storm IQ of 160 by preschool.”

“Is storm IQ a thing?”

“It is now.”

I sighed and took a left toward the lookout point. Behind us, the sky was darkening. Lightning flickered over the mountains. Scout snorted in her sleep, smacked her lips, and farted loud enough to shake the windows.

Lark beamed. “That’s my girl.”

I shook my head, smiling. “I used to be cool.”

“You were never cool,” Lark said without missing a beat. “You were always that guy who organized the emergency kits by category and cried when he got me a toaster that also defrosted bagels.”

“That toaster is a masterpiece of engineering.”

“Scout agrees,” she said, pointing to our daughter, who was now awake and chewing on her mitten like it owed her money.

I pulled into the overlook, parked the SUV, and reached into the back to hand over a baby bottle. It was warm, Lark-approved, and labeled STORM MODE in permanent marker.

“We’re a circus,” I said.

“We’re a team.”

Then, just as the clouds opened and the rain started to pour, Scout let out a triumphant wail and puked all over my shoulder.

Lark snorted so hard she startled the baby. “Welcome to fatherhood, Mr. Martin.”

I mopped off the spit-up, kissed Scout’s forehead, and reached for Lark’s hand.

She grinned at me with that spark in her eyes—the one that said I’m yours, and we’re insane together.

God help the weather. The Martins had officially arrived.