Page 186 of Mended Hearts

I stroked a steady hand down her hair.

“Shhh, brave girl. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered, pulling back enough to meet my eyes, her lower lip trembling.

“I know, baby,” I breathed.

Ollie leaned over my legs and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “We just have to take Leighton to the hospital to have the baby, okay? Can you be strong for me just a little longer?”

She sniffled, nodding, then wiped at her tears with her fists before rounding the bench to hurl herself into his arms.

I glanced up at Mr. Sunshine—our EMT—who gave me a gentle smile and a quiet nod as Ollie whispered I love you’s into our daughter’s hair.

Then, before I could process it, they were gone. Our miraculous little humans were ushered gently from the vehicle, the doors pulled shut behind them.

The engine rumbled beneath us. A few seconds passed, and then the siren screamed to life.

When I looked back at Ollie, he was already focused—steadying himself, steadyingme. Like everything started and ended right here.

“Okay,” he breathed, setting his hands on either side of my legs. A calm intensity lit his face, sharpening those strong, steady features I knew better than my own reflection. “Let’s do this.”

“Mm-hmm,” I squeaked.

“Leave all that back there,” he said, his voice firm and sure. “We’ll deal with it later. Right now, all that matters is you and our baby. Understand?”

I nodded, even if I didn’t quite feel it.

“Leighton,” he said again, and something in his tone snapped my eyes up to his. That beautiful, tanned, tear-streaked face. His voice softened as the smallest smile broke through.

“We’re gonna have our baby.”

29

Respect Your Elders

OLIVER

The only sound on the planet sweeter than our baby’s first cry after a long, grueling labor was his mother humming to herself in my arms.

“You did incredible, love,” I murmured, probably for the thirtieth time. I couldn’t help it. I was in awe of her—of her strength, her grit, and her stubborn, unshakable trust in me through all of it.

Our son was bundled up and snoozing contentedly in Paxton’s arms—who’d somehow managed to make one of those absurdly uncomfortable hospital chairs look like a recliner—and we’d jumped at the chance to finally get Leighton showered off.

“Mmm,” she purred, resting her head on my shoulder, eyes closed as her face tilted into the spray. I slid a soapy palm over her collarbones and swollen breasts, washing away the gunk and silently thanking every higher power I could name that she was okay. That they both were.

In the past forty-eight hours, I’d stared down my worst fears. And by grace alone, I was here—holding her, counting blessings. The kids would be by soon to meet their brother, and my bride wanted to “wash the yuck off.” Couldn’t blame her. My own chest had taken on a sticky sheen of vernix and assorted birth fluids, and I was itching to do the same.

The stall was a tight fit for two, but after twenty-six hours of back labor—right around the time my forearms seized from applying counter-pressure and I had to start squeezing her hips with my thighs—Leigh had finally opted for the epidural. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a relief to watch her doze through contractions instead of fighting her way through every last surge.

Still, she was on fall watch after a dizzy spell earlier, the first time they let her stand.

Enter me—the watcher. Because over my dead body was some nurse going to be the one washing her hair right now.

“I love you, Leighton Alexandra,” I breathed against the shell of her ear, shifting her slightly to rinse out the conditioner she’d packed in her baby bag.

“I love you too.”

“You’re a fucking warrior.”

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