Page 87 of Worth the Wait

The morning light spills through floor-to-ceiling windows, washing our bedroom in gold. I stretch languidly, not loving the dull ache in my muscles from yesterday's moving efforts.

Eight years since we reunited at Blake Financial, four since we left New York's relentless pace behind, and today marks our first official morning in the home we designed together—built on the very daisy field where our story began.

"Jack?" I call out, my voice still husky with sleep. My hand reaches across the mattress, finding only rumpled sheets where my husband should be.

I ease myself up, one hand instinctively cradling the pronounced swell of my belly. At six months pregnant, my movements have slowed, become more deliberate. Our son, who we've yet to officially name, though Jackson keeps lobbying for Thor, tumbles inside me, an early morning somersault that sends a jolt of pain through my ribs.

“Oh.” I wince, standing up. The scent of coffee draws me from our bedroom, down the hallway where framed photographs line walls still waiting for the perfect paint color.

Jackson and me outside our New York apartment. Jackson and me at our wedding in this very daisy field five years ago. Daisy’s birth three years back and the groundbreaking for this house just months ago. Each image a milestone in a journey that began when we were just teenagers.

I pad down the stairs, the cool hardwood against my bare feet. It feels so good to finally be out of the cramped rental we’ve been living in the last several months. Our home is exactly as we dreamed it would be. It’s modern yet warm, with soaring ceilings and windows that offer a breathtaking view of our daisy field. The heart of the house is the open kitchen where I find my husband now, his back to me as he stands at the stove, moving with practiced ease among boxes still waiting to be unpacked.

Jackson hasn't heard me yet. He's flipping pancakes while our daughter perches on a stool at the kitchen island, her little legs swinging as she carefully arranges blueberries into smiley faces. At three, Daisy is a perfect fusion of us. My chestnut hair and Jackson's piercing blue eyes. His height and my… as Jackson likes to put it,mommy’s sassy little attitude.

"More booberries, Daddy," she demands, her small hand extended.

"What's the magic word, princess?" Jackson asks, his voice carrying that particular softness he reserves only for our daughter. She has him wrapped around her little finger already, something that I fully expect to turn into a raging problem someday. But for now, I just savor these little moments together.

"Please," she responds with exaggerated sweetness that makes me bite back a laugh.

I lean against the doorframe, drinking in the scene. The morning light catches in Jackson's dark hair, illuminating threads of silver that have begun to appear at his temples. He's wearing nothing but low-slung pajama bottoms, the muscles of his back shifting beneath golden skin with each movement. Thesight still makes my pulse quicken, my body responding to him with embarrassing immediacy even after all these years.

"Are you going to stand there staring all morning, Counselor?" Jackson asks without turning around, somehow sensing my presence the way he always has.

"Just enjoying the view," I reply, moving toward them. "Hard to believe this is really ours now."

He turns, spatula in hand, his eyes warming as they trail over me in his old Harvard Law t-shirt that stretches across my pregnant belly. His gaze leaves heat blooming across my skin.

"Believe it," he says, setting down the spatula and crossing to me. His hands frame my face before he presses his lips to mine in a kiss that still carries the electric charge of our first. "Welcome home, Mrs. Hayes."

"Wells-Hayes," I correct automatically, using our ancient, comfortable argument.

"Mommy!" Daisy squeals, finally noticing me. She scrambles down from her stool and rushes over, wrapping her arms around my legs. "Daddy's making happy pancakes!"

I run my fingers through her soft curls. "I see that, sweetie. They look delicious."

"Baby brudder like pancakes?" she asks, placing her small hand against my belly with curiosity.

"I think he does," I tell her, covering her hand with mine. "He's doing somersaults this morning."

Jackson's hand joins ours, spanning my stomach with splayed fingers. As if responding to his father's touch, our son kicks firmly against his palm.

"Strong legs," Jackson says with pride. "Future soccer player."

"Or dancer," I counter, raising an eyebrow.

"Or both," he concedes with a laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to my belly. "Good morning, little man." Then hestraightens, eyes dancing with mischief. "How about we have breakfast on the deck? First meal in our new home should be special."

"Yes!" Daisy bounces with excitement. "Can I bring Princess TuTu?" she asks, referring to the stuffed ballerina mouse Ellie gave her for her birthday.

"Of course," Jackson answers. "It's a family breakfast. Everyone's invited."

I watch as Daisy races to retrieve her treasured companion, then turn to Jackson. "Need help?"

"Just grab the coffee," he replies, flipping the last pancake onto a platter. "I've got the rest."

We carry breakfast out to the expansive deck that overlooks the daisy field in full summer bloom—a sea of white and gold swaying in the morning breeze. Last night we'd been too exhausted from moving to fully appreciate the view, but now, in the clarity of morning light, the panorama takes my breath away. This field, our field, now fills the view from our home, just as we'd dreamed the day Jackson proposed.

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