Page 104 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

Because this?

This is everything.

Epilogue - Holt

9 Months Later

Ivy stumbles a little over a root, and I tighten my grip on her hand before she can faceplant into the dirt.

“Easy, baby,” I murmur, guiding her carefully. “I like your face too much to let you go scuffin' it up now.”

“Wow, thanks. You saying you won’t love me anymore if I’m ugly?”

“Of course not. But we can always put a bag over your head if we need to.”

She huffs, her lips curling in that little almost-smirk she gets when she’s trying not to be charmed. “Maybe I wouldn’t be scuffing it up if you’d just let me take this thing off,” she grumbles, reaching for the blindfold.

I swat her hand away. “Patience.”

“I have none,” she deadpans.

“Oh, we know.”

Behind us, Wyatt chuckles, the sound a little strained—probably because he’s got two tiny humans strapped to his chest. They’re both miraculously quiet, but I don’t trust that will last long. Our daughters are just as stubborn as their mama.

The sun is starting to dip lower, slanting golden light through the trees as we walk. The scent of pine and damp earth fills the air, mixing with the distant hint of woodsmoke from the cabin.

It’s been nine months since Hank first showed Ivy this land. We’ve spent damn near every waking moment building. And now, finally, after months of weather delays, sleepless nights, and the absolute chaos of newborns—twinnewborns, we’re here.

It’s done.

And our girl’s about to get her first look at it.

My stomach twists a little, a strange mix of excitement and nerves. I want her to love it. Need her to love it.

We’re going to build a life here, a family, together. It’s not just a house. This is going to be ourhome.

I slow our pace as we reach the clearing, my heart picking up a little as I catch sight of the house. The last time Ivy was here, it was just a skeleton—wood and nails and a vision only Hank could really see. He insisted she not see it again until it was finished. He wanted the end result to be a surprise.

Two stories of solid, handcrafted beauty, sitting on this perfect slice of mountain land.

Hank added a few things as he went along. There’s a big wraparound porch where we’ll drink our morning coffee. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows facing the view where we’ll be able to catch the sunrise. A fireplace big enough to roast a whole damn deer, which Hank swears we won’t actually do, but I make no promises. But, most importantly, there’s enough space for all of us—and room to grow.

Ivy is gonna lose her damn mind.

I glance over at Wyatt, who shifts one of the babies higher on his chest, adjusting the wrap with a practiced ease that still kind of surprises me. When the twins were first born, none of ushad a damn clue what we were doing. Now? We’re a well-oiled machine. Most days.

He’s rocking slightly, probably trying to keep the babies sleeping. Our girls.

And, no, they did not get some Hollywood hippie names. No Apples or Kales or Moonbeams here. Just Emma and Juniper. Classic, solid names for two tiny little troublemakers who’ve turned our world upside down.

Emma—the oldest by a whole two minutes—came out screaming. She’s got a set of lungs on her that rivals the loudest siren, and she knows exactly how to use them. If she’s not happy, everyone’s gonna know about it. Strong-willed as hell, just like her mama.

And then there’s Juniper, our quiet little observer. Where Emma fights sleep like it’s her sworn enemy, Juni just watches the world with big, round eyes, always taking everything in. She hardly ever cries, but when she does, it’s this soft little wail that somehow makes me feel like the worst kind of bastard for not fixing whatever’s wrong immediately.

They’ve wrecked us. Completely, utterly wrecked us in the best way possible.

I never thought I’d be the kind of guy who’d get all soft over a couple of squishy, milk-drunk babies, but here I am.

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