Page 38 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Surprise
GIA
TWO YEARS LATER
The soundof my eighteen-month-old son chattering to himself in his crib pulls me from sleep, his voice carrying through the baby monitor like morning sunshine. Klaus Kane has inherited his father's early rising habits and what appears to be an endless supply of energy, even first thing in the morning.
"Mama! Dada! Up!"
Beside me, Rosco groans and pulls a pillow over his head. "Your turn."
"I got him up three times last night because he was teething." I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles well used. Last night was spectacular, even with Klaus's interruptions. Two years of marriage has only made the chemistry between us stronger.
"Fine, but I'm making coffee first."
"Make it strong. We've got the final custody paperwork review at ten, then lunch with your family, then the contractors are coming to look at the nursery addition."
"Busy day." Rosco sits up, his hair sticking up in directions that should be illegal. Even rumpled and grumpy, he's the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. "You nervous about the meeting?"
"Not anymore." And I mean it. The final custody hearing is just a formality at this point. Zack pleaded guilty to federal corruption charges eighteen months ago and is serving a five-year sentence. The restraining order keeps him away from us permanently, and Klaus's birth certificate lists Rosco as his father.
"Good. Because you know what today really is, right?"
I grin, sliding my arms around his neck. "Our second wedding anniversary."
"The anniversary of the best day of my life." He kisses me softly, the kind of gentle morning kiss that promises better things later. "Happy anniversary, Mrs. Kane."
"Happy anniversary, Mr. Kane."
Klaus's chattering gets more insistent, punctuated by the sound of him throwing his stuffed animals out of his crib. Our son has strong opinions about when his day should start, and sleeping past seven am is apparently not acceptable.
"I'll get him," Rosco says, kissing my forehead. "You take a shower. We've got time before we need to leave."
I watch him pad down the hallway in nothing but boxers, all muscles and confidence and Dad mode. Two years ago, I never could have imagined this life. Waking up happy, safe, surrounded by love and laughter and the beautiful chaos of a family.
The shower in our expanded master bathroom is one of the improvements we made last year when we added the second story to the cabin. Rosco designed it himself, with dual headsand a bench that's perfect for lazy Sunday mornings when Klaus naps.
When I emerge from the bedroom twenty minutes later, I find my boys in the kitchen. Klaus is strapped into his high chair, cheerfully destroying a bowl of Cheerios while Rosco makes coffee and scrambled eggs. The sight hits me the same way it does every morning, a wave of gratitude so intense it takes my breath away.
"Mama!" Klaus reaches sticky hands toward me, his face lit up with the kind of pure joy only toddlers can achieve. "Up! Up!"
"Good morning, baby boy." I kiss his cheek and steal a Cheerio from his tray. "Did you sleep well?"
"No sleep! Play!"
"Play later. Breakfast first." I settle at the table with my coffee, watching Rosco move around our kitchen with easy familiarity. Two years of mornings like this, and I still get butterflies watching him.
"Penny for your thoughts," he says, setting a plate of perfect eggs in front of me.
"Just thinking about how different my life is now. How different I am."
"Better different?"
"So much better." I catch his hand as he passes, bringing it to my lips. "I never thought I could have this. The safety, the stability, the absolute certainty that someone has my back no matter what."
"Always." He squeezes my fingers. "You'll never have to doubt that."
"I know." And I do know. The bone deep certainty that Rosco will always choose us, always put our family first, always be the man I can count on.
The drive to Vancouver takes an hour and a half, with Klaus napping in his car seat and classic rock playing softly on theradio. The final legal meeting is indeed a formality, just signing papers that officially close the last chapter of my old life.
