Page 79 of Make You Mine

He launched a boutique advisory firm here in Virginia, helping small businesses stay afloat and turn a profit without selling their souls. It’s still finance… but with heart. He sets his own hours, picks his own clients, earns more than enough to keep us comfortable, and hasn’t once missed a family dinner.

My career’s taken a few turns too. Some of them planned. Most of them not. After everything that happened with Chelsea, I took a break from writing, initially because I was recovering, but mostly because the words wouldn’t come.

For months, I’d sit in front of a blank screen, fingers hovering over the keys, and all I could do was stare. But eventually, I got that itch again, and I found myself tapping away, the words pouring out.

It wasn’t about escaping into some fictional world. More so about reclaiming an experience I had.

So I did what felt right. I wrote a booklooselyinspired by the nightmare we lived through about the nanny from hell. It was a safe space to explore the trauma and strangely cathartic to experience the situation through the lens of fictional characters.

Turns out, the story struck a chord. It became a national bestseller—my best-selling book to date. My publisher’s been begging me ever since to turn it into a series, and the readers won’t drop it either. Every other message is:When’s the next one? Is it a trilogy? Will there be more?

But I’m in no rush. I’ve learned my lesson about pushing myself past my limits. These days, I write when the words come,not when I feel pressured because too much time has gone by and my career is slipping through my fingers.

I’m just as happy focusing on Declan and the kids.

We’ve even had another baby.

…because apparently peace and privacy make for excellent birth-control failures. Desmond was born only a year after we settled in, another caramel-dipped mini me of Declan. He’s two now, going through that phase where he’s banging pots together and thinks he can saynoto everything.

But he’s got two older siblings who look out for him.

Emmett’s entering preschool this fall, which blows my mind. It feels like it was just yesterday he was taking four naps a day and sucking down my breastmilk like he couldn’t get enough. He’s fascinated by his dad, swearing up and down he’s going to be a businessman like Declan when he’s older.

We’re not sure he grasps what it even involves, but he thinks the satchel and laptop Declan carries around are cool, so that’s enough for him.

Meanwhile, Willow’s taken her responsibility as the oldest very seriously. Though she’s only eight—almostnine, which she regularly reminds us—she insists she’s mature enough to babysit Emmett and Desmond.

Declan usually laughs and strokes her curls. “Maybe in a few years. You’re still a widget, Widget.”

“Daddy!” she groans, stomping her foot. “I’m a big girl now!”

We usually exchange amused looks as she goes on to tell us about how she no longer uses a night lightorbelieves Santa is real (so she says, though she still leaves out a plate of cookies each Christmas Eve).

But she does still enjoy running and playing like a kid. It’s part of what makes our summer nights as a family.

The sun dips behind the Blue Ridge Mountains, painting the sky in smudges of coral and lavender as the thick summer airhums with cicadas. I sit curled in the old wicker chair on our back porch, a smirk on my face.

Out on the lawn, Willow and Emmett dart through the soft blades barefoot, chasing fireflies with a glass jar that glints gold in the dusk. Their laughter rises into the evening like wind chimes. Desmond tries to keep up, but he can only teeter after them, occasionally plopping his diapered bottom in the grass. He claps and squeals every time one of his older siblings makes a grab for a flickering light. He doesn’t really understand the game, but the two-year-old’s thrilled to be included just the same.

The screen door creaks behind me and slaps shut, followed by the familiar thud of Declan’s boots on the porch boards. He sets a sweating glass of sweet tea on the table beside me with that crooked smile I’ve never gotten tired of, even after all this time.

“Fireflies,” he says with a tilt of his head toward the kids. “Or some sort of low-stakes Darwinian contest. Not sure which.”

I snort, half choking on my sip of tea. “Let them burn off all their energy. They’ll crash hard after this.”

He sinks into the lounger beside me with a satisfied grunt, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily. “That’s the spirit. Wear ’em out early so we can have our own fun. Mummy and Daddy Time.”

He waggles his brows at me not-so-subtly and then reaches out a hand to squeeze my thigh. My cheeks flush even as I laugh, swatting at his hand.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And yet, somehow still married.”

“Mmhmm.”

He leans back, hands behind his head, watching the kids run in dizzying little circles through the last amber stretch of sunlight. After a beat, his tone turns thoughtful. “You know what tonight is, don’t you?”

I draw in a slow breath that exhales even slower. The tea is cool and sweet on my tongue, and the sky is shifting now into a deeper shade of blue. Willow is shrieking as Emmett fumbles a firefly and it flits right past his nose. Desmond claps again, delighted and clueless, and I revel in how things couldn’t be any better than this.

---