I kiss her again. “As long as I get to live mine with you, I’m going to die happy.”
Epilogue
5 YEARS LATER
ROMILLY
“I’ll never gettired of the way your mum cooks,” Bash whispers in my ear. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the way you cook, too, but there’s something about Thanksgiving that makes everything she serves taste unreal.”
I giggle. “Trust me. I know what you mean.”
We’re all standing in a circle next to my parents’ dining room table. A table that’s currently filled with steaming plates of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and the rest of my mother’s delicious creations.
My dad says grace with all of us holding hands, and then we find our seats. Bash pulls out the chair next to his for me to take, then helps our four-year-old daughter, Ginger, onto my lap.
“Daddy, I want stuffing,” she tells him.
“No fair,” he teases. “I want stuffing, too. What are we going to do?”
Ginger gasps. “I don’t know.”
“Bash, passmethe stuffing, first,” says Zara from across the table.
“No.” He picks up the platter and holds it to his chest. “This is all mine.”
My mom laughs. “Honey, I’ll whip up all the stuffing you want. Just never stop telling me how much you love it.”
“I could never,” he says. “In fact, I’m convinced the only person here who likes it more than I do is Ginger.” Bash winks at me, and from my lap, Ginger nods eagerly and makes a barking sound like a dog, then licks her lips.
It’s her new thing lately—acting like a puppy. Last week, Bash and I let her explore the entirety of The Paw Spa for the first time, so she’s been obsessed with acting like a dog, even chasing poor Jasper around until he hisses at her.
Mom laughs. “Well, in that case, pass the platter to my granddaughter this instant.”
“Save some for me,” says my dad.
Aiden smirks. “Sorry, but if Ginger wants it, you might as well kiss it goodbye.”
Even though he’s joking, my brother has a point. Ever since Bash and I adopted Ginger through the foster care system, my mom has made it clear she will not be refraining from spoiling her granddaughter any chance she gets. And that was two years ago.
I help Ginger spoon more casserole onto her plate and weave her honey-colored hair into two braids so she doesn’t get food on it. I’ve become a pro at eating from my own plate with her on my lap. Even though Bash constantly offers to take her from me so I can eat in peace, I won’t let him. My sweet girl won’t be this little much longer, and I already know how much I’ll miss having her on my lap once she’s too big to be there.
I kiss the top of her head. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mommy,” she says around a mouthful of stuffing. There’s gravy dripping down her chin, so I dab it with a napkin. So far, she hasn’t stained the cream sweater I justbought her. And I’m glad, because it looks so cute on her, bringing out the golden tones in her pale skin and brown eyes.
When we’re all finished with our second and third helpings of Thanksgiving dinner, we gather around my parents’ living room to talk about what we’re grateful for.
Zara is practically bouncing in her seat on the couch. “Can I go first? I’m grateful to finally be done with college. Now I get to see everyone more.”
My mom wraps Zara in a hug. “I’m grateful for that, too, honey. And also for every single one of you sitting here with me today.” She tears up a little and wipes her eye, just like she’s done every year since I was a kid.
For the first time, I understand why. Just thinking about the past few years I’ve spent with Bash and Ginger, even for a moment, makes me emotional. It’s hard to believe I was so against opening my heart to him when we first met. I would have missed out on so many beautiful memories if I hadn’t trusted God to bring us together. And then trusted Him again to help us adopt Ginger and make her our permanent daughter.
We all go around expressing what we’re most grateful for this year, and when it’s my turn, I say, “I’m grateful that my wonderful husband, Sebastian Black, has become so high-ranking in his promotion that he only has to fight twice a year now. We get to keep more of him this way."
Bash squeezes my hand. His own have become even more calloused over the years, now showing signs of all his training and fighting, along with the labor he’s done around my shop, and finally learning to fix cars in his spare time. And somehow, he’s only gotten more handsome with time. His occasional stubble has blossomed into a full beard, and in his brown and cream shearling jacket and slacks, it’s hard not to stare at him.
“If anyone is wondering what I’m grateful for, it hasn’t changed,” he says. “I’m thankful for God, for all of you, and forthe meal we just ate, which I’ll be dreaming about every night until next Thanksgiving.”
