Page 133 of Our Long Days
“Bear? Where?” Our six-year-old daughter jumps to her feet, startling the goats.
Then, they faint. Used to it by now, we ignore them.
Everley bounces on her toes. “Can I pet it?”
“No. We don’t pet bears.” Dex chuckles and bops her on the nose. “Mommy meant bear-er.”
She pouts and points behind her. “Can I go play by the water, please?”
“Let’s wait until your cousins get here,” I suggest.
She rolls her eyes and returns to whatever game she was playing with Vincent van Goat, Butt-Head, Duck Norris, andHopscotch, our Lionhead Rabbit, the newest member to the farm that’s our backyard.
With her gray eyes and dark hair, she’s every bit her father—until her sass came in. Since her first word—no—I’ve had nothing but respect and sympathy for my parents. If Dex didn’t shave his head, he’d be bald from stress.
She entered the world kicking and screaming one year after we moved into our new home. A lot happened in the twelve months following the completion of the cabin. We got married, I graduated with my business degree, Everley was born, and I became an equal partner of Moore Lumber.
Well, Moore Lumber & Daughters, as it’s called now.
Because yes, daughters. Plural.
I glance at the baby video monitor on the table, watching our three-year-old twins, Bryony and Cassidy, who should be asleep, yapping away to each other.
If three wasn’t enough, number four is currently using my bladder as a punching bag.
Dex senses my discomfort and leans over to place a large hand over my swollen stomach. “Last one, huh? You sure?”
I point a warning finger at him. “Don’t give me that look, Dexter Robert Moore.”
He smirks. “What look, Florence Abigail Moore?”
“The look that got me into this mess.” I circle my belly. “Damn you and your seductive ways.”
“I think you’ll find you’re the one who seduced me.” He pats his lap. “Come here.”
Heaving myself out of the chair, I waddle over and plop myself down on his knees. Dex has really leaned into the whole dad bod physique over the years, which might explain why I’m always pregnant. A man in flannel with a baby strapped to his chest really hits you in the ovaries when you’re ovulating.
Gently, he curves his arm under my stomach and lifts carefully.
“Oh, god. That’s good,” I moan.
The immediate relief has me melting into him. His forearm flexes, muscles and tattoos rippling. He’s decorated head to toe in black ink, and I admire the bright purple aster on the inside of his wrist.
My tattoo.
“Trouble, noises likethatare why you’re in this mess.” The scruff on his chin scratches my bare shoulder. “I’m happy with the army you’ve given me. Would’ve been happy with just my ring on your finger.”
I shuffle to sit sideways at the emotion clogging his voice. A sentimental smile pulls at his lips.
“You’ve given me the world and then some,” I say as I cup his cheek.
He brushes his lips against the tattoo on my wrist.
We look out at the lake, glistening with the sun’s rays. The weekend we moved in, Dex moved our chairs to the water’s edge to watch the sunset, and he’s done it every Saturday since. Not a week after Everley was born, he crafted a smaller version of our chairs.
When Bryony and Cassidy came along, he spent an entire weekend in the workshop.
It’s the girls favorite tradition, watching their daddy lug the chairs down the path, clapping and cheering him on. I’m his biggest cheerleader, though.
