Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
“I’m flattered,” he said, eyes glittering. “So are we good?”
“We’re good,” she said, sighing happily. “Though my parents are going to think I’m crazy for telling them to sic Sampson on you in the morning and informing them that you’re moving in in the afternoon.”
He wrinkled his nose. “No, they won’t. Your mom already told me that as long as I make you happy, she’s willing to help me get on Sampson’s good side.”
Yasmin laughed. “It’s never going to happen, O’Sullivan.”
“I don’t know,” Noah said. “I’m starting to believe in miracles. Or at least extremely fortuitous coincidences.”
“Thank God for the screw up at the sperm bank?”
“No,” he said, gaze softening. “Thank God for you.”
And then Yasmin cried a little and laughed a little and she and Noah decided to run the mud run in their street clothes because it seemed like the thing to do. And when they were done, they collected two of the coolest Mud Run tee shirts in the history of Lonesome Point and went home to shower together. But thankfully, by the time Li-Mei and Frank came to meet Yasmin’s new boyfriend, they were both dressed and sitting out on the new deck furniture, admiring the view from their corner of paradise.
And it was paradise. On that day and every day after.
EPILOGUE
Noah
Three years later
Isaiah Benedict O’Sullivan—Izzy to his friends and family—was born under a lucky star, on the fourth calendar day in the year of the rat, just like his mother. And like his mother, Izzy was clever and kind and had a mischievous streak a mile wide. But unlike Yasmin, or his unlucky-with-poultry father, the boy was a natural born chicken wrangler. From the moment he could walk, it became clear that the reign of rooster terror would end in his lifetime.
Now, as Noah watched the two-year-old toddle around his grandmother’s section of the petting zoo, with Sampson the Sixth tucked firmly under one arm and a slightly dusty binkie in the other, he couldn’t help but admire how completely in his element his son seemed.
“It’s happening today,” Yasmin whispered, coming to stand at his elbow. “The last binkie is getting lost and never found.”
Noah winced. His son loved his pacifier—his binkie—with a passion he reserved for very few things. Izzy was a sweet-tempered, even-keeled kid, but get between him and his binkie and sparks flew.
“It has to happen,” Yasmin insisted. “The new baby is due at the end of the summer. If we don’t get Izzy weaned off of his pacifier before then, he’ll be stealing his little sister’s.”
Noah placed an affectionate hand on his wife’s round belly. “I’m glad we’re having a girl this time.”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Yasmin said, smiling as she covered his hand with her own. “I don’t want any sibling rivalry between the kids. That means no binkie rivalry, either. The next time Izzy drops it, I’ll distract him and you swoop in and toss it. And when he asks where it is, we play dumb and say all gone.”
“All right.” He sighed, nodding toward their son, who had just dropped his binkie in favor of trying to grab one of the fluffy baby chicks scampering around his chubby legs. In Izzy’s other arm, Sampson the Sixth grumbled good-naturedly but didn’t attempt to free himself from the boy’s hold. “Looks like it’s go time.”
Yasmin nodded. “Go, fight, win.”
A second later, Yasmin had bustled across the petting zoo enclosure, her gauzy red maternity dress swirling around her legs. Noah was a few feet behind her, already tucking the binkie into his pocket and looking around for a trashcan, when he realized the flaw in their plan.
Sampson the Sixth didn’t care for his alpha’s mother at the best of times, but Yasmin dressed in red was an irresistible target. Before Noah could hurl himself in the path of danger, Sampson had flapped free of Izzy’s grip and hurled himself at Yasmin in a flurry of pumping wings and scrabbling claws.
Yasmin cried out and turned to run, the rooster hot on her heels, while Izzy scampered after them shouting, “No, bad roo! Bad! Leave mama ’lone!”
Noah, who was momentarily trapped behind a cluster of kids who had shifted out of the way when the feathers started flying, could only watch helplessly as Yasmin made a beeline across the town square toward the gazebo, followed closely by Sampson the Sixth, with Izzy trailing up the rear, waving a pudgy fist and shouting two-year-old abuse at his errant rooster.
All around them, the activity of the festival paused for a moment as people turned to watch the spectacle.
“She runs fast for a pregnant lady,” an old farmer standing near the baby duck enclosure observed.
“She’s in excellent health,” Li-Mei replied with pride in her voice before turning to Noah and shooing him with both hands. “Go on then, Noah. You know you like to be the hero. Go save the day and tell Izzy to hold Sampson tighter next time. He’s the alpha and that bird should know it.”