RAVEN
Unbelievable.
Is this for real?
I stand in front of the white picket fence, mouth hanging open and staring at the house I envisioned myself living in as a teen. The house I told him about.
It’s a lot bigger than the one in my imagination. But it’s a two-story farmhouse cottage with light yellow shutters and a wrap-around porch framed by wooden columns. The exterior features white clapboard siding, midnight blue-shingled tiles on the steeply pitched roof, and two dormer windows on the second floor.
A swing made of honeyed wood hangs from the ceiling by two sturdy, thick ropes.
“You like it, love?”
I swing around to face him, tears already sliding down my cheeks. “What is this?”
“My little surprise. We can work on the hand-painted flower boxes when we move in.”
I choke on a sob and launch myself at him.
So this is what he’s been working on for the past year. He was busy and came home exhausted on most nights, but after I gave birth to our first son, Ryan, Rowan always took over. He made sure I had enough sleep.
He even had time to take me out on our weekly date night, but I could tell he was under a lot of pressure. I thought it was because of one of his clients.
“Was this why you were so stressed?”
He chuckles and kisses my forehead. “I wanted everything to be perfect for you. I wanted to see that exact look on your face right now.”
“Did you work on this yourself?”
Rowan gives me a knowing grin. “You know it, love. I didn’t want someone else to take credit for my gift.”
“Oh, Rowan.”
Standing on my toes, I loop my arms around his neck and crush my lips to his, taking pleasure in the way he softens and pulls me against the stiffness in his pants.
“Baby, how about we liven up the space with your moans?”
He doesn’t have to convince me. I sprint to the porch and swing the door open before turning back to him. “Catch me if you can.”
EXTENDED EPILOGUE
ROWAN
Idon’t know if my kids know this, but I’ve built more than a dozen buildings in this town. I won awards. I’m so in demand I now have the luxury of refusing projects.
So them questioning my ability to build a princess castle with their Legos is a hard hit to my ego and my entire career as a handyman and owner of a construction company.
I finish the turret, and my five-year-old daughter, Riley, sighs audibly, disappointment written all over her cherubic face. None of my clients have ever looked at me the way she is looking at me right now.
“No, Dad. It has to be pink. She’s Princess Pink, remember? That’s the color of her rival kingdom.”
“It’s a fortified turret. It’s pink on the inside.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
Well, so does a pink kingdom that sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of the woods. It’s like a beacon to all the kingdom’s enemies. But I don’t tell her that.
“You know what? I’ll do it,” my older daughter, Rachel, says. “Maybe you can do the moat, Dad?”
