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Then, we were.

Ready.

And after a home study, some classes, and meeting with a caseworker to go over files, we were paired up with a set of siblings—fourteen and twelve—who we’d welcomed into our home(s), into our life.

They’d been with us just under a year, and we already couldn’t imagine a life without them.

“Hey,” Brock said, coming into the kitchen where I was putting together a snack board.

“What’s that look for?” I asked, knowing mischief when I saw it.

“Fenway just called. He’s at some concert or something that the kids like. And he’s going to do a video call with the band. You know what that means?”

“That we really shouldn’t let our children associate with a man who keeps a team of crisis managers on the payroll?”

“He’s gotten in less trouble since he’s settled down,” Brock insisted. “But no.”

“What does it mean then?” I asked.

“It means we have a solid twenty-five to thirty minutes of alone time,” he told me, already grabbing my wrist and pulling me toward the stairs. “I bet, if we use your little buzzy friend, we can get you to come three or four times,” he added, smirking at me, his eyes bright with the upcoming challenge.

It was four.

And we stumbled back down the stairs, disheveled, flushed, to find the kids just wrapping up their call with Fenway.

None the wiser to what had just happened.

“Hey, tell your mom that she missed a button,” Fenway called.

“Fucking Fenway,” Brock hissed, closing his eyes as he sighed.

It was our daughter, the eldest, who looked over, her face screwing up.

“Gross,” she decided, then turned her attention back to choosing a movie on the TV.

“Hey, did you hear that? We grossed out the kids,” Brock says. “I’ve never felt more like a parent.”

“Not even when you tell your awful dad jokes that makes them roll their eyes?” I shot back, fixing my buttons.

“Hey, those are loving eye rolls,” Brock insisted, grabbing the snack board for me.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to feel better,” he said, putting down the tray, then pulling me down beside him.

Reaching down, he grabbed my wrist, pulling my arm up, and planting a kiss on the inside of my forearm.

Where I’d gotten something completely ridiculous tattooed on my skin.

Reptar.

To match the one Brock had tattooed on him years before.

It covered the scar that had brought us together, turning it into something that represented our connection, the life we’d built together.

It wasn’t the first time in my life that I found a way to be thankful for all those horrible things all those years ago.

Because if it hadn’t been for all of that, I would never have built all of this.

“Hey,” Brock called as the movie started, making me turn my head up on his shoulder to look at him.


Tags: Jessica Gadziala Romance