Page 39 of Huck Frasier (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #5)

Marley

O ur daughter was born with Fraiser’s eyes, my attitude, and a scream that could rattle the windows. She was perfect. Terrifying, but perfect.

Six months later, I sat on our back porch, watching Fraiser pace the yard with our chubby bundle tucked in one massive arm like she weighed nothing.

He talked to her in that low, calm voice that had once convinced me to let him sneak off on dangerous missions.

It didn’t work on her. She was already learning to boss him around, just like her mama.

He caught me watching and shot me that crooked grin that still made my toes curl.

“Don’t even think about it, Marley.”

I batted my lashes innocently. “Think about what?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Whatever scheme is brewing behind that pretty forehead of yours.”

I held up my phone, scrolling through an email from my best friend. “Lark and I were just talking about a family camping trip. She says the mountains are perfect this time of year.”

Fraiser froze mid-step. The baby cooed and drooled on his shoulder.

“Absolutely not,” he said flatly. “I’m not hauling a baby, two sisters, and three suitcases of snacks into bear country again.”

“Technically, you hauled me through the Ozarks, so I owe you.”

He stomped up the steps, dropped a sloppy kiss on my mouth, and shoved the baby gently into my arms. “You’re not going anywhere near the woods until she’s at least five and can outrun raccoons. We have enough mountains here.”

I smirked. “You’re adorable when you think you’re in charge.”

He grabbed the back of my neck, kissed me again until the baby squawked in protest, then whispered against my lips, “Keep testing me, Mrs. Frasier.”

I looked at our daughter — bright-eyed, unstoppable — then back at the love of my life.

“Bring it on, Mr. Fraiser.”