Page 132 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

I reached down, took her hand, and pulled her gently back up onto the bed. “Anyway, now we’re gonna make banging noises for a different reason.”

Her arms slid around my neck, and her lips met mine, soft and slow. But just as the kiss started to deepen, she pulled back and scrunched up her nose.

“Okay, wait.” She held up a finger. “I need to brush my teeth first. That can’t have been pleasant, sorry.”

I laughed and flopped back onto the bed, watching as she darted naked into the bathroom, her hair wild and her heart completely mine.

And yeah—this might’ve started as a tequila-fueled detour in Vegas.

But I was pretty damn sure we were headed exactly where we were meant to go.

Epilogue 2

Gabby

Two Years Later

Grand Cayman Islands

The waves were slow and lazy that afternoon, rolling onto the shore like they had nowhere else to be. A breeze stirred off the water, soft and salty, just enough to keep the heat from being overwhelming. I lay stretched out under a striped umbrella, the sand warm beneath my towel, my hand resting lightly on the gentle rise of my stomach.

We’d found out I was pregnant the morning we left for the airport. We’d been trying for a few months—nothing tracked, no apps or alarms, just letting life happen. Still, seeing the positive test while I was brushing my teeth had knocked the air right out of me.

Webb hadn’t panicked. He’d kissed me on the forehead, calmly tucked the test into the drawer, and asked if I still wanted a window seat on the flight.

Now, two days later, we were parked on a beach in paradise, pretending we weren’t already half in love with something the size of a jellybean.

I turned to him, my sunhat low over my eyes. “Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”

Webb shifted in his chair beside me, reaching over to adjust the umbrella until it cast more shade across my midsection. I didn’t have much of a bump yet, but he’d been hovering around it like it was made of porcelain.

“I think it’ll be a girl with your mouth and my patience. Which is to say no one’s safe.”

I arched an eyebrow and sat up. “Did you seriously just move the umbrella?”

He didn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Webb, I swear, if you keep covering my stomach, I’m going to end up with a weird tan. Like some kind of sun-worshipping Neapolitan bar.”

He ignored me and grabbed his phone, tapping quickly.

I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t?—”

He held up a finger, reading dramatically, “‘According to a semi-reputable parenting forum, exposing your pregnant belly to the sun for more than seven minutes may result in the baby being born with an intense love of heat, extreme sarcasm, and the inability to wear pastels.’”

I glared at him. “Are you serious right now?”

He cleared his throat. “‘Also, possibly a third nipple.’”

I snorted and chucked a shell at his leg. “I refuse to be educated by Reddit and fear-mongering moms in capri pants.”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, lowering his phone with exaggerated disappointment. “But this is how chaos babies are born.”

A few minutes passed in silence, with only the sound of the ocean and distant seagulls. Then I heard him stand. When I cracked one eye open, he was kneeling beside me, brushing sand off his knees.

He leaned in and, and with complete sincerity, whispered to my stomach, “Please help me convince your mommy that she can’t keep doing what she’s doing in case you end up crispy.”

I laughed so hard I almost knocked over the sunscreen. But something in his voice stuck with me. There was genuine concern in it—not the dramatic, controlling kind, but the kind that comes from loving someone so much you can’t help but worry, even when it makes you look ridiculous.

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