Page 44 of Hunter

“Mine,” I growled against her lips. “You are my whole world, sunshine. I’ll never let you go.”

EPILOGUE

SADIE

If someone had told me five years ago that I’d be decorating a cake while six months pregnant, covered in powdered sugar, with frosting in my hair, while my toddler sang “Wheels on the Bus” at the top of her lungs…I never would’ve believed them. That was how fast I fell for Wesley. And how completely he flipped my world upside down.

Not that I was complaining.

“Well, that’s one way to decorate,” Marcy called over the music and chaos, her voice light as she hip-checked the walk-in fridge door closed. “Pretty sure the mixer’s got more icing than the cake does.”

“That’s not my fault.” I stepped back from the counter, one hand braced on the small of my back. “Tell that to your future protégé.”

Our daughter sat proudly on a step stool beside me, her curly hair half clipped up with a tiny bow and her cheeks streaked with flour. She was supposed to be holding the piping bag. Instead, she’d gotten distracted and was now smearing pink icing across the countertop like it was finger paint.

“Tell Auntie Marcy you’re creating edible art,” I whispered.

“Ed-a-bull aht!” she declared proudly, licking her fingers.

Marcy let out a wheeze of laughter. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

I reached for a clean towel and tried to wipe some of the sugar off my belly, only for the baby to give a solid kick in protest.

“Hey,” I murmured, rubbing soothing circles against the bump. “You’ll get your turn with the piping bag in a few years.”

Or sooner, considering how strong this kid already was. My first pregnancy had been a blur of exhaustion, happy tears, and craving peach cobbler every night for a month straight.

With this one, all I wanted were frosted pickles. And I wasn’t kidding, as much as I wished otherwise.

Marcy caught me glancing toward the fridge and smirked. “Go on. You know you want one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said primly.

“Liar. I’ve seen the jar. You hide it behind the butter like it’s state secrets.”

Before I could protest, the back door opened, and just like always, my heart jumped when I saw Wesley.

He walked in like he owned the place. Technically, he half did since he was my husband, and I became Marcy’s partner in the bakery two years ago.

His gaze landed on me first, like always. And despite the bump, the flour, and the pink icing in my hair, the heat in his eyes hadn’t changed one bit since the first time he walked into the bakery.

“Security check?” Marcy called, not even glancing up from the dough she was working on.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

I grinned and waddled—yes, waddled—around the counter to meet him. His arm wrapped around my waist the second I got close, tugging me against his chest as though he hadn’t just seen me a few hours ago when he’d dropped Sarah and me off at the bakery.

“Hey, sunshine.”

“Hey, yourself.” I leaned up and kissed his scruffy jaw. “We’re a little messy today.”

His amber eyes cut to the counter, where our daughter was now taste-testing frosting with a spatula like it was her job.

“You don’t say.” His voice was dry, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“She’s got your sweet tooth.”

“She’s got your everything else,” he retorted.

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