2. Shiloh

Chapter two

Shiloh

January

“This is it. This has to be it,” I murmur, my hands clammy around the plastic stick. “Come on, baby.”

Something outside the bathroom door crashes, followed by a scream. I jump, dropping the pregnancy test. It clatters to the marble countertop, but I ignore it as every instinct demands I get to my boys. My heart thunders in my chest as I rip the door open, sprinting to the upstairs hallway.

The piercing sound of a toddler’s cry echoes around our massive home and my stomach sinks.

I know that cry.

“Archer!” I shout, gripping the banister as I jog down the stairs. “Boys, what happened? Where are you?”

I stumble through the baby gate, catching the latch on my dress twice before taking a breath and getting it right.

“Mama!” Arch wails just as our other son, Asher, comes barreling around the corner, colliding into my legs. I nearly trip over him but catch myself on the kitchen island at the last second.

Bending, I scoop my red-faced, trouble maker up, giving him a look as I quickly search out Archer. “Why do you look guilty, my love?”

Ash gives me his best pout, but I won’t be deterred. I cock an expectant brow and he releases a sigh befitting of a whole ass teenager instead of a two-year-old.

“Not my fault, mama,” he says, crossing his tiny arms. “He’s a bad, bad boy.”

It takes everything in me not to laugh at his petulant posture. He looks exactly like Logan—they both do. “And why is he bad?”

“You see,” he murmurs ominously.

I follow the sound of quiet sniffles as my mind wanders back upstairs to the pregnancy test I left lying on the counter. I hope Lo doesn’t get to it before I do. And if he does….

Shaking my head, I focus on the two children I already have. The ones I love more than life itself. They’re perfect, sweet little boys, even if they are a bit naughty sometimes. Still, they’re my world and I’d do anything for them.

They’re enough , I remind myself. And they are. If Logan and I never conceive again, Asher and Archer will always be enough, and I’ll be damned if I even let them feel like anything but.

“See, Mama,” Ash cries, jolting me back to the present. I rub my forehead, cursing myself for getting distracted. I’m just so damn tired.

My throat tightens as my eyes widen.

No.

It can’t be.

Maybe?

Against my will, I smile. I don’t mean to, but it slips out.

Yet the second I lay eyes on what my toddler’s pointing at with his precious, chubby finger, my smile falls.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, freezing in my tracks. I gape at the downstairs playroom. How the hell long was I gone? Long enough to pee and stare at a developing stick, so, what? Less than five minutes. Tops.

“How…”

“You owe dollar to da swear jar,” Ash accuses, scrambling from my hold.

A dollar to the swear jar is literally the least of my worries right now.

I gently set him on the ground, but my mind is still doing mental olympics in an effort to piece this shit show together. The majority of our beautiful oak floors are covered in dirt. It’s smeared up the walls, turning the mossy green playroom walls into a muddy color that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get out.

And sitting in the middle of the room is Archer, surrounded by a heap of equally dirty toys. My gaze slides down his body, taking in his once mostly-clean outfit. Now, his gray monster truck shirt and blue shorts are filthy. Brows furrowed, I turn to find his brother happily scooping up piles of dirt and building what I can only assume is a racetrack.

He’s equally dirty.

With a groan, I look down, finding my white sundress covered in brown toddler handprints.

“Seriously?” I mutter, shaking my head. I mustn't have noticed with all the screaming and chaos.

My hands skim down the pleats, but it’s too late. There’s no rescuing it without a heavy dose of bleach. Boy mom for the win.

Archer sniffles, pulling my attention back to the situation at hand. With a sigh, I tiptoe through the mess and scoop him up, dropping him on my hip.

“Are you okay, baby?” I ask, brushing tears from his dirty cheeks. He shakes his head, his lower lip wobbling.

Arch is my sensitive boy. At times, he’s just as rambunctious as his brother, but he’s quick to cry and feel big emotions, whereas Asher would rather wreak havoc than waste time with tears.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

He shakes his head again, burying his face in my neck. Patting his back, I turn to his brother. “So, my sweet, darling boys. Which of you would like to tell Mama what happened? Where did all this dirt come from?”

And why? Oh, God, why?

Ash jumps to his feet and shoots me a wide grin. “I show you, Mama.”

“Joy,” I mutter, following him through the playroom. It’s right off the open concept main floor, which makes watching them a lot easier when we’re cooking dinner or cleaning up the house.

Ash leads me toward the pantry/mudroom and my face scrunches up. The moment the boys could walk, Logan had to childproof every door that leads outside. Archer kept trying to escape, demanding in his adorable baby-talk that he wanted to be with his dog family.

The door should be locked, which makes the whole dirt thing even more baffling.

That is, until my son drops to his knees and shoves his small body through the doggy door.

“Are you kidding me?” I cry, setting Archer on the floor as I get a better look.

The second he’s free from my grip, he scurries after his brother, his tears and dismay completely forgotten. I dive forward, snatching onto his foot just as he makes his way through the hole. His tennis shoe slips off and I fall backward on my ass with a thud.

My eyes burn.

Fuck. Some days are hard .

My head tips back and I stare up at the ceiling, questioning every life decision that brought me to this moment. The boys howl and laugh outside the door, whispering about how they need more dirt for their logging camp.

Ah, so that's what it was. Another thing they’ve learned from their dad. A dad who’s busy at work, doing all he can to keep Huxley Homes the booming company it is so I can fulfill my lifelong dream of being a stay at home mom.

Exhaustion fills me, and because I’m apparently a fucking sadist, my mind immediately wanders back upstairs. Could I be pregnant?

Well, of course, technically I could. Logan and I still have just as much sex as we did when we first met. It may not be as wild and adventurous, but very rarely does a day pass by where we’re not wrapped up in each other.

Sometimes it’s after the boys are asleep. Other times, Logan rolls me over in the middle of the night, and I wake up to him slowly fucking me, drawing me from sleep. A shiver races down my spine. Those are some of my favorite moments we share, only coming in second to lazy morning fucks.

My cycles aren’t as terrible as they once were. I’ve done a lot to regulate them over the years, and surprisingly, having a full-term, successful pregnancy with the twins helped a lot. Still, ovulating is hit or miss.

But we keep trying, and every month, no matter how much I try to talk myself from the ledge, I’m always hopeful. I’m never not praying for it to work. I’m never not breaking my promise to not test before I’ve missed my period.

Every month, I beg and pray to whoever will listen. And every month, I’m heartbroken all over again. It’s torture, and on days like this one, I wonder why I try so hard. I wonder why I want it so badly.

Then I see their faces, I hold their hands, I hear them sleepily call my name, and I remember .

Being a mother is wild.

It’s exhausting, it’s painful, it’s emotionally damaging.

But it’s also the best journey I’ve ever experienced.

That’s the only explanation I have for why in the world I’m laying on the floor of my mudroom, covered in dirt, while my sons no doubt scour for more, all the while hoping that right this moment, there’s another Huxley baby growing inside me.

The door bangs open and I jump, bumping my elbow on a cabinet.

“Baby doll,” Logan calls as he lumbers in, a toddler in each arm. “Are you missing anyone? I found—”

He comes to an abrupt halt right in front of me and cocks a brow. Whatever he sees on my face has his eyes narrowing as he looks from Archer to Asher, pausing on our trouble maker.

“Why is your mama on the floor covered in dirt?” he barks, though he and I both know he’d never actually raise his voice at our boys. They have him wrapped around their little fingers. “Judging by the way you both look and the dirt piles I found you in, I assume you had something to do with it?”

When neither of them responds, he sighs, murmuring a string of censored curse words under his breath. Bending his massive frame, he sets them down, giving each a stern look.

“I want you to apologize to your mama, boys,” he demands, meeting their matching blue eyes. “And then, I want you to help her up like the gentlemen we’re raising you to be. You got me?”

Archer scuffs his one bare foot on the ground and nods solemnly. “Got you, Daddy.”

Logan rubs his back and turns to Ash. “And you, buddy? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Asher makes a toddler equivalent of a scoff. “I told Mama before dat it wasn’t my fault—”

Logan clicks his tongue and palms the back of our son's head, drawing his attention. “Are you lying, Asher Huxely? Because you know how we feel about being dishonest in this house. It’s no way for a man to behave and I’m raising good, respectful men, right?”

His shoulders slump, and he bobs his head, shooting me a sweet look. “Sowwy, Mama.”

I smile, brushing his red hair back. “I know, baby. Thank you for apologizing.”

“I’m so sowwy, too!” Archer throws himself into my lap and I catch him with a groan. Logan chuckles, tugging him back after a quick hug.

“Alright, boys. A new lesson today. First off, you never leave a woman on the floor, you hear me? You make them fall, you pick them back up and apologize your butts off.” They nod, listening dutifully. Total Daddy’s boys. “If they fall and it’s not your fault, but you’re there, you help them up and make sure they’re okay.”

He grips my hands, instructing the boys in an over the top but adorable lesson on how to help a woman to her feet. When neither boy can successfully pick my much heavier weight up, Logan chuckles, shooting them a wink.

“If that doesn't work, you go with my favorite damsel rescue move.”

Before I can blink, I’m scooped up in his arms, bridal style. I wrap my hands around his neck and fall into a fit of much needed laughter.

Logan grins down at me and presses kisses all over my face.

“How’s my girl?” he murmurs, brushing his beard across my jaw. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

I sigh, happily resting in his arms. “I’m good, Daddy,” I whisper. “Better now.”

He gives me a look, but I shake my head, ignoring his responding frown. Now isn’t the time for the whirlwind of chaotic emotions I’m struggling with today.

“Alright, boys. Second part of the lesson. Follow me.” He kicks off his work boots and moves into the kitchen before depositing me on the island.

“Logan!” I protest, attempting to climb off. I glare up at him when he pins me. “I’m dirty!”

His eyes rake over me in a way that has my entire body lighting up. “Oh, you sure are, Mrs. Huxley.”

“Be serious,” I snap half-heartedly. “I’m covered in dirt. Dirt that’s also covering the playroom. I need to clean it up.”

Shaking his head, he boops my nose before leaning in to kiss it. “Nope.” Spinning around, he widens his stance and crosses his arms, glaring down at the boys. “Second lesson. You never bring dirt into the house, which is a rule you already know, so why on earth did you do it?”

Archer shrugs. “Wanted to be like you, Daddy.”

I roll my eyes at his sweet voice. It’s precious, don’t get me wrong, but damn. They know exactly how to pull on my soft husband's heart strings.

“Like me?” he murmurs, clearing his throat. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Asher bounces on his toes. “We built a logging camp, Daddy! With tractors and trees and everything!”

“Really?” Logan asks, his voice sounding a little too damn choked up for my liking. “That’s awe—”

“Logan Huxley!” I whisper-hiss, shoving his shoulder. “Dirt is bad , remember!”

“Wanna see it, Daddy?” Archer cries, jumping up and down. “Come look! It’s so cool!”

I watch Logan hesitate, and I know he’s beating himself up right now. He’s happy that his boys are proud. That they want to be just like him. But he also knows they did something wrong and he hates having to be the one to dampen their spirits. I hate it, too, and they are just so damn cute…

“No, thank you,” Logan murmurs, surprising me. He rolls his neck and pops his knuckles. “As much as I appreciate you boys loving Daddy’s work so much, you broke a rule. You’re not supposed to bring outside things inside. You’re also not allowed outside without an adult to watch you. Lastly, you ran from your Mama, and I’m guessing you snuck outside.”

He gives me a questioning look, and I nod, gratitude and love filling me. I’m not alone in this. Never alone.

Logan jerks a nod. “So here’s what’s going to happen. First, we’re going to clean up the mess.” They start to protest, but he nips it in the bud immediately. “Nope. We’re cleaning. Then dinner, baths, and an early bedtime.”

The boys whine their protests, but Logan turns to me. He grips my face and pulls me in for a sweet, lingering kiss. When he pulls away, I’m breathing hard and feeling dazed.

“Did you plan on anything for dinner?” he murmurs, running his fingers through my hair.

“There’s a lasagna in the fridge.”

He nods, his eyes flicking between mine, seeing all too much. “You’re tired, baby doll.”

I swallow hard. “Yes.”

Logan watches me for a long moment and lets out a long breath. “Go take a bath. I’ll clean up the mess and get dinner started.”

I shake my head, but he freezes me with another kiss. “You had them all day, baby. I’m on Daddy duty now.”

“You worked. I—”

“So did you,” he says fiercely. “You worked all day. In fact, you worked way damn harder than I did. Chasing after the boys is a full-time job. Taking care of our big ass house is a full-time job” He presses a kiss to each eyelid. “And taking care of you is my job. My favorite job.”

My throat burns.

I love this man more than air.

“Now, go take a bath and relax. Light a candle, drink some wine, read a book. You’re officially off work.”

He helps me from the counter and hugs me close, rubbing knots from my shoulders until I’m practically standing in a puddle of goo. When I’m thoroughly relaxed and biting back moans, he chuckles and pats my ass.

“Off you go, baby doll,” he commands, spinning me toward the stairs. Right before I reach them, he calls, “If your book is smutty, you’re not allowed to take care of yourself until I get there.”

I shoot him a glare. “You’re not the boss of me!”

Logan tips his head back and barks out a rumbling laugh. “That’s cute, baby doll. Real cute.”

I smile, but as I rush up the stairs, it’s not a dirty book I’m thinking about. The only thing on my mind is the little plastic stick I left on the counter.

Please.

Please.

Please.

I was pregnant.

The little plastic stick told me so.

But that was less than two days ago, and now my period is here. I used to be hopeful when this happened. Used to tell myself bleeding was normal in early pregnancy. And it is. What’s not normal is having a full-blown period, especially when you’re less than four weeks along.

Another chemical pregnancy.

Another baby that didn’t stick.

Another small bubble of happiness that’s popped too fucking soon.

I stifle a sob as I quietly close the bathroom door. It’s the middle of the night and Logan has to be up for work in a few hours. I turn on the lights, dimming them to their lowest setting, and strip off my soaked underwear. The sight of the blood crushes me.

It shouldn’t.

I should be used to this.

But I’m not.

Every time the cramps come, my heart fractures a little more. And when I see the actual proof of what I already know to be true, I lose a little more hope.

How long will I last before I can’t take it anymore? Before I give up completely?

Another sob slips free, and this time, I can’t quite catch it in time. I flick my gaze to the closed door and hold my breath. When I don’t hear any signs of Logan waking up, my shoulders drop. I barely mustered up the courage to give him the pregnancy test at breakfast this morning. Now I’ll have to tell him a different kind of news in the morning.

I knew I should have waited, but damn it, I’d been too excited.

Shaking my head, I throw my ruined panties into the sink and shuffle to the toilet. Nothing makes a woman feel less sexy than the first few days of a period. Between the awful cramps, PMS, stomachaches, nausea, and bloating, it’s a wonder we find the strength to function at all during Satan’s waterfall. Our uteruses are literally tearing themselves apart and punishing us for not conceiving. It’s the worst cosmic torture that exists.

Dropping to the toilet, I cradle my face in my hands and finally give into the urge to cry. Sadly, this isn’t my first time crying on a toilet, and it likely won’t be the last.

“Baby doll?”

Shit.

I suck in a sharp breath, burying my face deeper into my palms. I’m not ready for this. Not yet. I thought I had more time. Time to grieve before I go back to being happy, hopeful Shiloh.

The door clicks shut, and I know the exact moment he catches on because I hear his slight intake of breath. Can sense the way his big body freezes. My panties, no doubt.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs. A second later, he’s on his knees in front of me, tugging me into his chest. “I’m so fucking sorry, Shiloh.”

I shake my head against him. “I’m sorry.”

And I am. No matter how many times he tells me this isn’t my fault, I can’t help the ugly voice in the back of my head telling me I’m broken. That I’m defective. That he should find someone else, someone who can make his dream of a huge family a reality.

Our dream .

Logan kisses my forehead and palms the back of my neck, bringing my eyes to his. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

I do, though. He just doesn’t believe me.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he murmurs. I swallow hard and shake my head. We’ve had this conversation countless times. There’s nothing left to say. He nods. “Are you in pain?”

I open my mouth to deny it, just as another excruciating cramp hits me. It’s always worse when your body has already started making baby chemicals. It’s confused and angry. Add that to my existing PCOS, and I know I’m in for a week of utter hell.

With a grimace, I jerk a nod.

Logan brushes sticky hair off my forehead. “Want a bath or a shower?”

As gross as the idea of sitting in my own blood is, a shower doesn’t sound nearly as soothing for my cramps and back pain.

“A bath, please,” I whisper.

Logan presses another kiss to my cheek, then my jaw, before finally meeting my lips. As he kisses me, my tears start up again, and I swear, I feel him shed a few of his own.

“I love you, Shiloh,” he breathes. “More than life itself. We’ll get through this. I promise, baby. You’re not alone.”

“I know,” I vow. “I know you’re with me. You have me.” And he does. Always. “I love you, too.”

He holds me until the ache in my heart softens to a tolerable level. I know the pain will creep back up. It always does, but for now, it’s okay. I’m okay.

When he pulls away, he pushes to his feet. “I’ll start the bath and give you some privacy. Be back in a few.”

I watch as he turns on the water, filling the massive soaker tub in our master bathroom. He checks the temperature twice before dumping in a few cups of epsom salts, bubble bath, and a bath bomb he got me for this exact scenario. It’s a period bomb that turns your bathwater red.

It’s completely over the top, but so damn sweet and exactly what I need right now.

After he leaves, I take a minute to breathe through another cramp before cleaning myself up and stripping off my top. When the bath is full, I flick off the tap and sink into the hot water. My tight muscles and throbbing uterus relax almost immediately, and I sigh.

“Feel good, baby doll?” Logan asks quietly as he steps in.

I groan, tipping my head back on the rest. “Yes. So good.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and raspy. A small smile curves my lips, surprising me. It’s so strange that a person can go from being utterly devastated and in pain to smiling in the next moment.

I peel my heavy eyes open, finding my husband on his knees at the edge of the tub, a chocolate bar in one hand, wine in the other. On the toilet is a water bottle, my Kindle, and a tub of ice cream.

It’s him.

Logan and the boys are the reasons for most of my smiles, but he is the reason I’ve gotten through everything I’ve been through. He’s the reason I’ve had the strength to keep going, keep trying.

And he’s the reason I’ll get through this again.

No matter how long it takes.