You can nab your downloadable EPUB version of this bonus epilogue here: https://books.kaitnolan.com/tin4i40mhx

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BODIE

Rubble’s nails clicked on the hardwood like a metronome set too fast, keeping pace with the thunder of little feet tearing down the hall.

“Daddy! Daddy, Rubble stole Henry’s block again!” Evie Rose shrieked, her wild curls bouncing as she careened into the living room with righteous fury burning in her gray eyes—eyes that were pure Maddox, just like her mama’s. She skidded to a stop in front of my chair, chest heaving with indignation, looking every inch the little prosecutor ready to make her case.

“She did not!” Henry came barreling after her, face red as a tomato, his plastic fire truck clutched in one white-knuckled fist like a weapon he was prepared to use. “She was just holdin’ it!” His voice cracked with emotion, the way it always did when he thought someone was being unfair to his beloved dog.

Rubble loped behind both of them, her broad chest low to the ground, tail wagging so hard her whole muscular back end wiggled like she was doing some kind of happy dance. Sure enough, she had the neon-green block tucked proudly in her powerful jaws, trotting like she’d just saved the world from certain doom. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, completely unrepentant about her crime.

“Rubble,” I warned, fighting a smile that threatened to break my stern chief-of-police expression. After years of dealing with actual criminals, I’d learned that sometimes the biggest troublemakers came in furry packages and lived under your own roof.

She froze mid-trot, ears flattening back against her blocky head, then padded over with exaggerated remorse and spit the block into my outstretched palm, slobber and all. The thing was practically dripping with dog drool, but Henry immediately tried to snatch it anyway. I held it out of reach, high above both their heads.

“Hey now.” I pointed at both twins, who stood panting and glaring at each other like tiny gladiators, cheeks pink and eyes bright with tears that hadn’t fallen yet but threatened to at any moment. “What’s the rule about fighting in this house?”

They both muttered it in unison, twin voices dripping with reluctance and the particular martyred tone that only three-year-olds could manage. “No grabbin’, no yellin’.”

“Right. And what else?” I waited, watching their little faces screw up in concentration as they tried to remember all the Gibson-Maddox household commandments.

“No bitin’,” Evie Rose added grudgingly.

“Or hittin’,” Henry chimed in, though he was still eyeing his sister like he might make an exception.

“Exactly. Now, Rubble’s not the bad guy here. She just wants to play, same as you two.” I wiped the block clean on my jeans and handed it back to Henry, who clutched it protectively against his chest.

“She’s always cheatin’ at games,” Evie Rose muttered, hands planted firmly on her narrow hips in a gesture so identical to her mama’s that it took my breath away for a second. Sometimes I forgot how much of Emmaline lived in our daughter—not just the looks, but the stubborn tilt of her chin, the way she never backed down from a fight she thought was righteous.

“Wonder where she learned that behavior,” I said, arching a brow and giving my daughter a look that said I knew exactly where the cheating came from—and it wasn’t the dog.

That earned me a little stomp of her bare foot against the hardwood, but the crisis was miraculously averted when Rubble flopped dramatically onto her side right at Evie Rose’s feet. The dog’s tongue lolled out comically, and she rolled onto her back with her muscular belly bared in the most shameless display of canine apology I’d ever witnessed. Her tail thumped against the floor in a steady rhythm, and she let out a soft whine that somehow managed to sound genuinely contrite.

My daughter lasted all of three seconds before the righteous anger melted away into helpless giggles. She collapsed onto the dog in a tangle of curls and little limbs, tiny hands immediately going to work rubbing Rubble’s spotted pink belly. Henry threw himself on top of the pile too, fire truck forgotten, and just like that, the living room rug became a wrestling mat of giggling kids and a sixty-pound pittie mix who ruled this house as much as I did—maybe more.

I left them to their impromptu wrestling match, because the scent of yeast and butter wafting from the kitchen told me my wife was pulling something dangerous out of the oven. Something that would probably derail any hope I had of getting the twins to eat actual dinner later, but I’d learned to pick my battles. Emmaline’s baking was worth a few fights over vegetables.

Emmaline moved with the efficient grace of someone who’d been working in kitchens her whole life. Her dark hair was piled up in a messy knot with tendrils falling down the back of her neck, and her apron was dusted with flour like snow. She looked up when I leaned against the doorframe, and that smile—soft, secret, still undoing me after all these years of marriage—hit me square in the chest like it always did.

“Don’t just stand there gawking, Chief.” She set a pan of golden dinner rolls on the stovetop with practiced ease. “Grab the honey butter from the fridge before your children descend like locusts and eat plain bread like heathens.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I crossed the room in three long strides and stole a kiss first, quick and hungry, her lips warm and soft and tasting faintly of sugar and cinnamon. She swatted my chest with the oven mitt, but her eyes were laughing, sparkling with the best kind of mischief.

“How’s the circus in there?”

“Currently wrestling Rubble for dominance of the living room. She’s still undefeated champion.” I opened the fridge and retrieved the container of honey butter she’d made fresh that morning, inhaling the sweet scent as I set it on the counter.

“Good girl,” Emmaline said with genuine fondness, and I wasn’t entirely sure if she meant the dog or our daughter. “That dog has more sense than both of them put together sometimes.”

She turned back to arranging the rolls in a basket lined with one of her grandmother’s old tea towels, and my hand found her waist almost automatically, palm resting just below the gentle swell of her stomach. Not much to speak of yet, maybe just the slightest roundness that could have been my imagination, but something had changed in the past few weeks. Something in the way she moved, the way she glowed, the way she sometimes pressed her hand to her belly when she thought I wasn’t looking.

She went still for a breath, then leaned back into me with a soft sigh. “You’re never subtle about anything, you know that?”

“Don’t need to be,” I murmured against her ear, breathing in the scent of vanilla and flour that always clung to her hair. “Not with you. Never with you.”

Because yes, the twins were three and wild as a pair of foxes, and yes, the house was chaos most days, between them and Rubble and my unpredictable schedule at the station. But the thought of another Gibson-Maddox baby kicking around inside her had already settled itself in my bones like something inevitable and perfect. Like coming home.

“It’s too soon to know for certain,” Emmaline protested, but her voice was soft, almost dreamy, and I could hear the hope threading through her words.

“Fine with me,” I said, letting my lips brush against the sensitive spot where her shoulder met her throat. “More practice makes very, very perfect.” I nibbled at that sweet spot and pressed my hips against her lush backside, letting her feel exactly how perfect I thought our practice sessions could be.

“Timing is a thing, Bodie,” she sighed, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, she melted back against me, her body warm and pliant and perfect in my arms.

“So is fate,” I murmured. “And luck. And love.”

The twins chose that exact moment to storm into the kitchen like a miniature army, cheeks flushed and hair wild from their battle with Rubble, who bounded in hot on their heels with her tongue hanging out and her tail still going a mile a minute. Evie Rose immediately latched onto my leg with both arms, tilting her head back to look up at me with those serious eyes.

“Daddy, Rubble says she wants a roll too,” she announced with the absolute certainty of a child who believed dogs could talk if you just listened hard enough.

I closed my eyes and sighed, feeling the domestic chaos swirl around me like a familiar storm. “Rubble didn’t say that, sweetheart,” I said, even though I knew it was pointless to argue.

“She doesn’t talk,” Henry chimed in with the logic of his three-year-old brain, climbing up onto one of the kitchen chairs to get a better view of the rolls. “Dogs can’t talk, Evie.”

“She talks to me!” Evie Rose huffed, crossing her arms over her chest in a gesture of pure indignation. “She told me she’s hungry and the rolls smell good, and she wants one with butter!”

I caught Emmaline’s eye over their heads, both of us biting back laughter at our daughter’s elaborate translation services. Rubble sat politely beside the table, head cocked at that endearing angle she always used when she was trying to look innocent, clearly waiting for her cut of the spoils. Her brown eyes tracked every movement of the basket like she was a furry little missile locked on target.

“Fine,” I said, giving in because it was easier than fighting and because Rubble really had been good with the kids all day. I tore off a piece of roll, made sure it was cool enough, and set it carefully on her waiting paw. “But only if she says thank you like a proper lady.”

Rubble immediately woofed, one sharp bark that sent the twins into absolute hysterics of delight. Her tail beat against the kitchen floor like a drumstick, and she delicately picked up the bread with her teeth, chewing it with obvious satisfaction.

“See?” Evie Rose crowed, triumphant vindication written all over her little face. “She said thank you! She’s very polite!”

I scooped Henry up with one arm, feeling his solid little weight settle against my hip, then grabbed Evie Rose with the other. She shrieked with laughter as I carried them both to the dining table while Rubble bounded ahead like she’d won some kind of victory parade. Emmaline followed with the basket of rolls and the honey butter, her smile soft and knowing as she watched our chaotic family pile into the mismatched chairs around the old wooden table.

The twins immediately launched into their usual argument over who got the first smear of honey butter, their voices rising in the kind of passionate debate that only siblings could manage over something so trivial. Rubble planted herself like a faithful sentry at our feet, clearly hoping for more handouts. And Emmaline sat across from me, her face glowing in the late-afternoon sunlight that streamed through the kitchen windows, watching our beautiful mess of a family with eyes full of love and contentment.

I caught her hand under the table, threading our fingers together and squeezing once. She squeezed back, her wedding ring warm against my palm, and that simple touch said everything we needed to say. That was all I needed—that connection, that promise, that knowledge that, despite everything we’d been through to get here, we’d made it. We’d built something real and lasting and good.

Home.

Messy and loud and absolutely perfect.

And mine. All mine.

* * *

Single dad, firefighter Colter is the next to get hit with the love stick in Hero Next Door! Long-time readers should recognize his shero, Swayze Parish, from Playboy in a Kilt. As you may have surmised, she’s about to learn why you shouldn’t sign rental agreements sight unseen… Stay tuned! And if you’d like a glimpse of her before she makes it to Gibson Hollow, be sure to check out Playboy in a Kilt or read the entire Kilted Hearts series bundle!