Page 145 of Mended Hearts

A screech rang out from Mattie. A war cry from Beau. And absolutely no sound from Leighton, which worried me more.

I rounded the staircase into the living room just in time to see Mattie’s ponytail disappear into the kitchen. Beau barreled at me, firing wildly. Once we were both out of ammo, I hoisted him over my shoulder and crept forward—only to be ambushed by the girls with what had to be a foam-dart bazooka.

The entire kitchen was littered with little blue and orange darts by the end of it. Mattie and Leighton were limp with laughter on the breakfast bench, my girls shrieking as I tickled them to pieces.

But it was week three that locked itself in my heart forever.

The kids were staying with Grey and Alice for the weekend, and I picked Leighton up at the crack of dawn from her apartment. Two cups of coffee—one half-caf—and breakfast burritos waited on the console. She climbed into the passenger seat looking murderous.

“Worth it, I promise,” I vowed, handing over the goods.

By the time we made it to the first stop, a scenic overlook three hours north, she’d fully commandeered the radio. The second she stepped out and took in the coastline, her face lit with awe.

“Jesus, the view is insane,” she breathed, taking it in.

“Right?” I breathed, watching the sun glint off her tan skin and play in those slate eyes.

“It doesn’t matter how many times I see it, the ocean is always stunning.”

“Oh,” I chuckled, still locked on her profile. “I was talking about you, Trouble.”

She rolled her eyes, fished out her camera, and motioned for me to turn around. A second later, she jumped on my back, legs locked around my waist. I held her steady while she kissed my cheek and snapped a Polaroid over my shoulder, presumably of us and the view. The film would take a few minutes to develop, so we wouldn’t know what we got until we hit the road again.

I didn’t set her down until we were back beside the car, where I stole a kiss before ushering her inside and glancing nervously at my watch.

Three hours later, we were on the outskirts of Pacific Grove when I made her blindfold herself.

“Kinky,” she said, tying the fabric around her head.

“You’re giving me ideas,” I muttered as I turned onto the road that led to the sanctuary.

“Good,” she replied. “We’ve got the hotel to ourselves. We’d better have ideas.”

Chuckling, I led her out of the car, through the eucalyptus grove, swatting her hands away every time she tried to cheat. “Just another damn second.”

At last, I swiped her camera from her bag and backed up a few paces. “Stay,” I said. She danced in place but didn’t peek.

Only when I had her perfectly framed did I whisper, “Now, Trouble.”

She tugged the blindfold down—and froze.

Even with the sun blazing through the trees, it wasn’t the light making her squint. It was the sight before her. Monarch butterflies, hundreds of them, drifting like orange and gold confetti through the trees behind her in the stillness of the grove. I snapped my photo. The hum of the camera printing the picture drew her shrink-wrapped eyes to me, just for a heartbeat. I smiled, jerking my chin up, redirecting her to the view above us.

They clung to the eucalyptus branches above and fluttered through the air like notes in a song only they could hear. The air was thick with that vaguely spa-like scent of the grove that tugged on memories of my childhood, standing right here with my mother.

I could see it the moment it hit her—the awe, the overwhelm—it looked like she’d taken a hit to the chest, staggering back a step as her hand came to hover over her lips. One word cracked out like a prayer.

“Ollie.”

Everything we hadn’t said since Christmas was wrapped in that one breath. It wasn’t just the butterflies. It was us. It was the fear, the healing, the hope. It was her saying yes—without saying a single word.

Tears glinted in her eyes as she turned in a gentle circle, looking up like the whole world had shifted beneath her feet.

I stepped behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and rested my hand on her belly. My chin settled on her shoulder.

The view was breathtaking—but nothing compared to holding Leighton in that moment.

There was something sacred in these trees. Something I hadn’t felt since I was a boy, holding my mother’s hand in this exact spot. I never thought I’d feel that kind of magic again.

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