Page 52 of Sweetly Yours

But then I remember the way he looked at me just now—like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t imagining it.

EPILOGUE

BROCK

Ten Years Later

The smell of sawdust still feels like home. My workshop hasn’t changed much over the years, though the projects have. Today, it’s a custom rocking horse for a customer expecting their first baby. I run my hand over the smooth wood, checking for any rough spots before applying the final coat of varnish.

The quiet doesn’t last long, though.

“Daddy!”

The familiar sound of Harper’s little voice echoes through the shop just before she comes barreling in. She’s five, her brown curls bouncing as she runs toward me, and behind her is Frankie—well, Frankie the Second.

“Hey, peanut,” I say, setting down my tools and crouching just in time to catch her as she throws herself into my arms.

“Mommy says dinner’s ready,” she says, her words tumbling out in a rush.

“Dinner, huh?” I stand, hoisting her onto my hip. “And she sent you to fetch me?”

She nods, smiling, and Frankie barks like he’s confirming the story.

“Alright, let’s go,” I say, ruffling her curls as I grab my rag and wipe off my hands.

The house smells like heaven as soon as we step inside—something sweet and buttery, which can only mean Willow’s been baking.

She’s in the kitchen, pulling a tray of cookies from the oven, and I take a moment to just watch her. After all these years, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

“You’re staring,” she says without looking up, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Can you blame me?” I reply, crossing the room to slide my arms around her waist.

“Don’t distract me,” she teases, though she leans into me for a moment. “These are for the shop tomorrow.”

“Sure they are,” I say, snagging a cookie from the tray before she can stop me.

“Brock!” she scolds, swatting at me with a towel.

“Totally worth it,” I say, grinning as I duck out of the way.

The sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs interrupts us, and Brock Jr. and Kiley burst into the kitchen mid-argument.

“He’s cheating!” Kiley shouts, glaring at her older brother.

“Am not!” Brock Jr. fires back, his ten-year-old voice full of indignation.

“What are they arguing about this time?” I ask, leaning against the counter.

“Something about a card game,” Willow says with a sigh, grabbing a spatula.

“You’re both wrong,” I say, pointing at them. “Now go settle it before dinner, or I’ll make new rules, and you won’t like them.”

They groan but stomp off, still bickering. Willow shakes her head, muttering, “Every night.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say, stealing another kiss as Frankie barks at our feet.

Dinner is loud and chaotic, just like always. Harper climbs onto my lap halfway through, Frankie begs for scraps under the table, and Brock Jr. and Kiley argue over the last roll.

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