Page 89 of Worth the Wait

"And you were the charming slacker who somehow managed top grades without seeming to try."

"I tried," he protests with a laugh. "Just not at studying. Mainly at figuring out how to get you to notice me."

"It worked," I admit, turning to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, feeling the slight rasp of stubble against my lips. "Though I didn't want to admit it at the time."

"Look at us now," he murmurs against my hair. "Wells-Hayes Law thriving in our little hometown. This house. Daisy. Baby boy on the way."

His hand slides beneath the hem of my sundress, warm palm resting against my bare thigh in a possessive gesture that still makes my heart race. The casual intimacy of his touch, the way his fingers slide perfectly into the spaces between mine when our hands intertwine—these everyday connections ground me, remind me that this isn't a dream that might dissolve at dawn.

"Mommy! Daddy! Look what I got!" Daisy comes racing back, her chubby hands filled with daisies she's gathered.

"Those are beautiful, sweetheart," I tell her, making room on the blanket. "What are you going to do with them?"

She plops down beside me, her expression serious as she begins arranging the flowers in my lap. "I'm making you a crown. Like in the pictures."

My heart swells. The only way she could know about daisy crowns is from the photographs we've shown her, from the stories we've told about our youth.

"Here, let me show you how," I offer, picking up several stems. "First, you need to make a small slit in the stem, like this." I demonstrate with careful fingers, then guide her small hands through the process. "Then you slide another stem through… that's it."

Jackson watches us, his expression soft. “You were wearing a daisy crown the day I knew I was in love with you," he tells me. "They've always been your flower."

“Hey, I’m Daisy," our daughter says, looking up from her weaving project as if she’s just now realizing it for the first time.

“Exactly, sweetheart. That’s why mommy and daddy named you that,” I tell her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Daisies also mean new beginnings and true love. And you were both of those things for us."

"What will we name the other baby?" she asks, returning to her crown with deep concentration.

Jackson and I exchange a glance. We've been circling various options for months without settling.

"We're still deciding," Jackson tells her. "Do you have any suggestions?"

She considers this with comical seriousness. "Unicorn!" she declares triumphantly.

I choke back a laugh. "That's… creative, honey. We'll add it to the list."

"What about Mason?" Jackson suggests, meeting my eyes over our daughter's head. We've discussed this name before but never quite committed.

I roll the name around in my mind. "Mason Wells-Hayes," I say experimentally, feeling how it fits.

"After Grandpa Mason?" Daisy asks, referring to my father.

"Yes," I say, surprised by the thickness in my throat. "After Grandpa."

"I like it," Jackson says quietly. "Mason it is."

The moment settles around us, another branch added to the family tree we're growing. Daisy finishes her crown with a final triumphant twist of stems and places it carefully on my head.

"Perfect," Jackson murmurs, “just like before."

I lean forward to kiss him, a gesture that makes Daisy giggle and cover her eyes with exaggerated disgust. But beneath the playfulness, there's a profound gratitude that rises in me like a tide. A gratitude for second chances, for persistence, for the man who saw all of me and wanted every complicated part, even after time and distance tore us apart.

"I have something to show you both," Jackson says suddenly, reaching into the picnic basket. He pulls out a small wrapped package. "A housewarming gift."

"You didn't tell me about this," I say, accepting the package with curious fingers.

"That's generally how surprises work," he teases.

I unwrap it carefully to find a small wooden box, beautifully crafted with an inlaid daisy on its lid covered in glass. Opening it, I find a single dried daisy—the one I recognize instantly as the flower Jackson pressed between the pages of his journal that last day in the field before I left for Northwestern.

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