Parker turns, immediately kissing me on the cheek. “My number looks good on you.”
“Do you like sparkles?” I ask, teasing him.
He leans in. “I can’t wait to see how they glimmer with you bent over the couch,” he whispers in a hoarse voice that drives me over the edge every time.
Then he drops to one knee in front of Mila, his grin gentle.
“And you’re wearing number eighty.” He spins Mila around and under O’Ryan it says, ‘The Best Brother.’
He smiles. “It looks good on you. Maybe you’ll grow up to be a football player. Did you see that catch?” he asks.
She nods, enthusiastically. “You didn’t even look scared.”
His gaze flicks to mine for a second thenback to her. I know what he’s thinking since I’ve been playing with his head for months.
“That’s because I trusted it.”
The word lands between us.
Powerful and important.
EPILOGUE
PARKER - THREE MONTHS LATER
Morning light slips through the blinds, the trees cast dancing shadows on everything that’s become ours.
I never thought I’d be this guy, barefoot and shirtless, standing at the stove like it matters how evenly I brown a piece of French toast.
But it does. Because Mila is sitting at my table like she’s always belonged here.
I dreamed of having this type of life one day, but after Michigan, I didn’t trust that I would ever find someone I would trust again. But I did—I found a beautiful woman and her little sister who make me laugh on a constant loop who are just as competitive as I am. They’re the missing puzzle pieces I needed to feel whole.
I flip the toast, then I feel the weight of her gaze before she even says a word.
“Are you going to keep staring at me like that?” I say, sliding another piece onto the plate, “or are you going to help?”
“I’m supervising,” Annika says, leaning against the cabinet.
I take a quick glance over my shoulder, seeing her comfortable in her own skin and in our house. Her hair is a little messy, with her eyes locked on me like I’m worth studying.
“No, you’re gawking,” I smirk. “And already eating the blueberries.”
“Do you blame me?” She takes a couple of quick steps, wrapping her arms around my waist and laying her head on my back.
Mila swings her legs under the table already halfway through a glass of watermelon juice, grinning as she watches us. “This is the best breakfast ever.”
“What about my breakfast?” Annika asks Mila.
“Cereal doesn’t count. Bagels don’t count. If you don’t use the stove, it doesn’t count,” she says with her mouth full and a streak of syrup dangling on her lip.
I lift my spatula and shrug.
When the last piece is finished, I slide into the chair across from Mila, but my attention drifts back to Annika as she joins us, tucking one leg under herself, thinking about tonight.
Tonight.
Mila launches into a story about skating, how she almost landed a spin from a jump. She goes into detail about how fast she was going, the angle she needs to take and how much power she needs to get high enough to land it.