Page 124 of When Love Found Us
I shake my head, biting back a laugh as I rub a slow circle over my belly. I love being pregnant and close to her, even when she’s pressing against my bladder every two minutes.
“You ready to go?” I ask, glancing between Nysa and Simone.
Simone raises a brow. “More importantly—are you? It’s almost time.”
She doesn’t mean shopping.
She means her.
Everly.
Atlas’s hand finds mine, his fingers warm, grounding in a way only he can.
Am I ready?
For labor. For her. For everything that comes after.
I swallow past the knot in my throat and nod.
“I’m ready.”
“Good, because tomorrow is the big baby shower in town. All the ladies are ready to welcome the new baby,” Simone continues.
“Have you noticed how they’re starting to forgive the Timberbridge brothers for . . .whatever the fuck their father did to piss them off?” Nysa adds.
“It’s you,” Simone states. “The wives and fiancées are the ones convincing everyone that they’re not assholes like their father—well, not all of them.”
She means Keir, of course. Keir, her not-really ex, who was a friend with benefits, and . . . there’s a long story between them that makes me sad for her. I haven’t met him because this town is beneath him, but if he ever comes, I wonder if he’ll want to be part of the family. If it’ll be awkward to have Simone and him in the same room.
“Keir won’t be coming any time soon. Somehow, he’s insisting that we sell the fucking lumber company,” Atlas states. “We’re not sure what’s going on with him, but if he does and you want me to fuck up his pretty face, I’ll be happy to do it.”
Simone grins. “I knew I liked you best, Timberbridge.”
Back at home,I sit in our daughter’s nursery, staring at the crib Atlas finally put together.
It’s beautiful, a deep, rich wood that matches the rest of the room, sitting beneath the hand-painted mural Atlas insisted on creating himself. The lake where he used to escape, the place where we fell in love, frozen in time on the wall above our daughter’s bed.
A new beginning.
Atlas stands in the doorway, watching me. He doesn’t say anything—just takes me in.
“You’re staring,” I murmur, running my fingers over the soft edge of the crib.
“You’re beautiful.”
The air becomes electrifying. The only way it does when he’s . . . flirting, when he’s making me feel like the only person in the world. His world. It’s not just the words; it’s the way he says them. Like I’ve wrecked him. Like I’ve always been meant to be here.
My throat tightens. “You’re just saying that because you have a thing for pregnant women.”
He moves toward me slowly, like he’s stalking a confession out of me.
“No,” he says, voice low, warm. “I’m saying it because it’s true. And just for the record, my kink is only formypregnant woman.”
I shiver, watching as he drops to his knees in front of me. His hands spread over my belly, palms wide, warm.
“She’s almost here.” His voice is reverent, awed.
I brush my fingers through his hair.
