Page 5 of Snowed In With The Second Chance Daddy

Once the sound settles, Oliver nods. His eyes show his sorrow. “Yeah, she will.”

“Oh. Joy.”

* * *

“Twevoh.”

“Trevor.”

Rose screws up her mouth, staring at me hard. “Twevoh.”

I blow out a breath. “Trrrrevorrrr.”

Rose lets out a brilliant laugh and tries to copy me, but the r’s still sound like W’s.

“Good enough.” I smile at her.

Ash, Oliver’s dad, approaches us. “Hey, dinner’s almost ready, could you clear the counter?”

“Unless you—” He pinches Rose’s cheek. “—Ms. Rosie, want to be on the menu?”

She lets out a high-pitched squeal.

“No way!” I scoop Rose up off the counter, twisting away.

We all laugh, including Ash’s four-year old, Ivy, who is hugging his leg, forcing him to drag her along with every step around the kitchen.

I carry Rose out of the kitchen, into the dining room. “God, you’re getting big, aren’t you?”

“Big, bigger, biggest!” She giggles and grabs a handful of my curls. At least she’s past the point of trying to put them in her mouth.

“And yet, you can’t say Trevor…” I grumble to myself as I walk past Rye, Ash’s wife, setting the table with the help of Rowan and Piper. Piper is the eldest of the most recent Hawthorn generation. The first child of Ash’s oldest son, Jarred. She’s almost ten, which is truly crazy to think about.

“Mommy!” Rose yelps, reaching for Rowan when she sees her.

Something tugs in my chest. Disappointment at being a second choice. Obviously, she should want her mom and dad before me.

I can’t help but wish someone, anyone, would choose me first.

Rowan takes Rose from me, peppers the little girl’s face with kisses.

“Okay, well, I need another baby to carry.” I pretend to look around and then go for Piper who is already tall for her age.

Piper runs away, laughing. “Asif, Uncle Trevor.”

I drop my hands, snapping. “Darn.”

Rye fluffs up the flowery centerpiece. “Pipes definitely isn’t a baby anymore.”

“No, she isn’t.” Time moves much too fast.

It’s been remarkable to watch all the children grow up but reminds me of my own mortality far too much.

Beyond the dining room, the din of the living room carries. I peek inside.

This is where the action happens. The rest of the Hawthorns are gathered around the perfectly trimmed Christmas tree, chatting and laughing, the kids playing.

The house is loud. It didn’t use to be that way when I came over for Sunday dinners. When I was eighteen, it was just me and the Hawthorn boys. Now all the Hawthorn boys are a matching set with their wives and each has at least one child.

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