Page 79 of Rockstar's Accidental Marriage

Emily rolls her eyes. “I didn’t mean to throw you into a panic.” She laughs. “I just wondered if you had something in mind or any family names we should consider.”

“Family names?” I ask with a confused frown.

Emily smiles. “Yes, um… like the name Louella is an old family name on my mother’s side of the family.”

“Louella? Isn’t that a girl’s name? People would shorten it. You want our little girl to be called Lou?” I ask in disbelief.

Emily shakes her head in exasperation. “Not really. I used that as an example. It’s a name that runs in our family. Believe me, we have enough Louella’s right now.”

The rest of the ride home, we take turns throwing out possible names for our unborn child. They get more outlandish the closer we get to the house.

“You do not seriously want to call our child Elvis?”

“Only if it’s a boy,” I say, trying not to laugh.

“How about this—if it’s a boy, I name him, and if it’s a girl, you get to name her,” she says, “At least that way, if you name her Moondrop or something else silly, it won’t seem so bad.”

“Deal!” I say with a smirk as I turn the truck onto our gravel driveway.

Walking around the vehicle, I reach up to assist Emily and pull her into a swift embrace.

“It doesn’t matter what we call our child because he or she will be surrounded by parents who love them,” I say in a low voice. Her body feels soft and yielding against mine, and I'm struck by how right this feels. The way she looks up at me with those misty blue eyes, full of trust and love, makes my heart clench. Protecting this—protecting her and our growing family—isn't just a duty anymore. It's everything.

Twenty-Five

Emily

We just got back from a quick trip to the local shops, and the car is stuffed with bags of baby items: tiny onesies, a soft blanket with pastel stars, and more decorative touches for the nursery than we’d planned to buy.

Sam carries most of the bags, grinning at me over his shoulder as he sets them down. “You’re going to spoil this kid before they’re even here,” he teases.

“You’re one to talk,” I reply, arching a brow. “Who insisted we buy that stuffed tiger?”

“That tiger had personality,” he says, deadpan, then breaks into a soft laugh.

I shake my head, but I can’t hide my smile. “Come on, we’ve got work to do. That nursery isn’t going to decorate itself.”

The room is already painted a soft, pale yellow. When we decided to make the beach house more permanent, I was relieved that we didn’t have to touch the walls. The pale color makes the space feel inviting, and with the weak afternoon sun streaming through the windows, it’s the perfect nursery.

Sam drags the white crib box into the middle of the room, squinting at the instructions like they’re written in another language.

“Do we really need directions?” he mutters, flipping the paper over.

“Yes,” I say firmly, snatching the instructions from his hand. “This is for our baby. You don’t just wing it with something like this.”

He raises his hands in surrender, a smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, ma’am. You’re the Boss Lady.”

I try to help, but “help” might be a stretch. Sam does most of the heavy lifting while I hover nearby, holding screws and pieces of wood that look important but might not actually be.

“You sure you’ve got this?” I ask, leaning over his shoulder as he tightens a bolt.

“Emily,” he says, his tone laced with mock exasperation, “if I can play to sold-out stadiums and survive nights on a tour bus with Vince’s snoring, I think I can handle a crib.”

“You’ve made your point,” I concede, biting back a smile.

While Sam focuses on the crib, I begin arranging the decorations we picked out earlier. The jungle animal prints are even cuter than I remember—playful elephants, mischievous monkeys, and a baby giraffe with wide, curious eyes.

I hold one up to the wall, tilting my head. “What do you think? Too high?”

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