Page 157 of Endgame

His reaction made me laugh. “And my mom,” I added, barely able to hold back my laughter from the look of sheer panic on Rourke’s face.

“Fine,” he muttered in defeat. “I’ll talk to him.” He lowered his face to mine, pressing his forehead gently to mine. “But only because I loveyou.”

“Thank you,” I replied with grin. “Now go,” I added, stepping aside to let him pass, and giving his butt a quick slap on the way.

Rourke wandered over to our bed, looking ruffled and annoyed at the prospect of having achatwith his father while I slipped into the kitchen to give them some privacy.

Rourke and Gabe’s relationship was still strained, although it had improved a lot since we left Ocean Bay after high school. They spoke on a monthly basis, unlike Mom and I who texted each other almost every day, and we had gone home to Ocean Bay for the holidays every year for the past four. Rourke and I were both in our final semester at MIT and on the verge of graduating with honors.

Instead of moving into the dorms like our friends had when we first arrived for college freshman year, Rourke had rented a small apartment close to campus, and after six months of dorm life, specifically communal showers, he had persuaded me to move in with him.

Three and a half years, a million arguments, one drunken marriage proposal followed by one sober marriage proposal, and one shotgun wedding in Vegas later, Rourke and I were still together. Rourke still called me Six and I, in turn, referred to him as Prick – when he deserved it, of course. He was still the best friend I’d ever had, and the love I’d once felt for him only seemed to grow. He also let me read his elusive notebook. I had cried like a baby the first time I read it, and if I’m being honest, every time since. The love Rourke’s mother had for him was beautiful and I was so glad he had that piece of her with him, though he rarely opened it anymore.

“I can’t believe you snookered me into facetiming them,” Rourke growled then, stalking into the kitchen with a weary expression etched on his face.

“I can’t believe I had to snooker you into facetiming them,” I shot back, allowing him to pull me into his arms. “Gabe’s your father. And the twins are our little sisters. You have to like them.” Sure, our preschool aged twin sisters were a handful, but so was he, dammit.

“And I do,” Rourke offered with a smirk. “From a distance. You know, the kind of distance where I send them a check on their birthdays and Christmas?”

“I can’t believe you don’t like them,” I scolded. “They’re just children, Rourke.”

“I’ll like our children,” he offered, tone suddenly gruff, as he placed his hand over my swollen bump.

I was six months pregnant and expecting our first baby in the summer. We found out last week that we were having a girl and had instantly settled on a name; Camille, in memory of Rourke’s mother.

“And you?” Rourke whispered, pressing a kiss to my lips. “I really fucking like you, Six.”

The End