“They’re boys,” he whispers, reading my mind.

  I open my mouth to argue, but the door bursts open.

  “Did I miss it?!”

  I grin at Daisy in the doorway. “Nope! You’re just in time.”

  Dr. Jones walks in behind her and smiles. “Daisy, it’s nice to see you again.”

  “Hey, Dr. J!” she greets. “How’s life treating you in front of the stirrups?”

  John deflates and looks at me. “What is she doing here?”

  I wince. “Did I not tell you she was coming?”

  “No, you did not.”

  “Whoops.”

  Daisy slides over an empty chair and sets it on my left. “Excuse me, halfback,” she says as she plops down into it. “I’ve been through this before, so I know more than you do. Also, Rose and I share DNA. These babies are as much mine as they are yours.”

  “Yeah, that’s not how any of that works.” His brow furrows with confusion as he looks at the doctor. “Right?”

  Dr. Jones shrugs as she snaps on her gloves. “Let’s look inside, shall we?”

  John squeezes my hand. He winks at me. One last way of telling me he’s right. But I know he’s wrong.

  Daisy snatches my other hand and grins across my exposed belly at John, squeezing my hand even tighter than he is, and I suddenly feel like I’m about to be torn apart like a wishbone.

  Dr. Jones slathers my belly with gel and readies the wand. I look at the screen and take a deep breath, biting my lip as butterflies wreck my insides. John kisses my hand with excitement in his eyes, barely able to contain it as his toe bounces up and down on the floor.

  “Okay…” Dr. Jones sets the wand against my belly and shapes instantly flood the screen.

  I squint, trying to make out what’s going on, but it looks more like a paranormal crime scene than a uterus, so I just sit back and wait.

  “Penis!” Daisy flails at the screen. “Sorry, but that was totally a penis.”

  John chuckles. “Do you always get this excited when you see one?”

  Daisy sticks her tongue out at him.

  “Is she right?” I ask. “Is there a penis, doctor?”

  “Yep,” Dr. Jones says. “Looks like we’re having some boys!”

  John pumps his giant fist. “Yes!”

  I feel a stab of bittersweetness. “Man, my instincts suck. I could have sworn they were girls.”

  He lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Hey, now you know you can always trust my instincts. John Kirby will never steer you wrong.”

  Daisy rolls her eyes.

  “Uh-oh.”

  The three of us stare at Dr. Jones, our heads swiveling in her direction so fast our necks could snap.

  “Okay, Doc,” Daisy says. “I’m usually not one to tell people how to do their jobs, but I don’t think uh-oh is the kind of thing you should say when you’re looking inside a belly full of babies.”

  “Well, it’s a good uh-oh, not a bad uh-oh,” Dr. Jones says. “I misread the ultrasound last time.”

  My heart sinks. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not having twins.” She smiles. “You’re having triplets.”

  Daisy gasps. “Triplets?!”

  I look at John’s sagging face, his jaw slacked open in silent shock as he stares at the screen.

  My eyes fill with tears. “Are you sure?”

  Dr. Jones adjusts the wand, tilting it to show a better angle. “Looks like she was hiding behind her brothers right… there.”

  I clench John’s hand. “She?”

  “Yep. Two boys and a girl.” She points at the screen. “Right there.”

  I lean forward as the third form takes shape. “Whoa.”

  “We’re having three babies!” Daisy shakes my shoulder. “Man, your vagina is gonna get so wrecked!”

  I try to say something — anything — but my tongue turns to stone in my mouth.

  Three babies.

  Two boys. One girl.

  “May I have a moment alone with my wife, please?” John asks the room.

  Dr. Jones slides out of her chair. “Sure. I’ll give you a few minutes and then we’ll try to narrow down that due date.”

  Daisy doesn’t budge. John glares at her.

  Finally, she sighs and lets go of my hand. “Fine. I’ll be right outside.” She plants a quick kiss on my forehead, lets out a happy squeal, and follows the doctor out.

  As soon as the door latches closed, John darts forward to kiss me. His body rumbles with laughter and I see a few tears growing on the edge of his eyes.

  I punch his shoulder. “I told you I felt a girl!”

  He smiles wider. “I will never doubt your women’s intuition or your motherly instincts ever again.”

  “Me neither!”

  He cups my face and kisses me again. “I love you, Rose.”

  “I love you, John.”

  He leans down, quickly kissing any part of my exposed belly not caked in goo. “And I love you, and you, and, especially, you.”

  “Two boys and a girl,” I whisper.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he says, sitting back down. “I’m fertile as fuck.”

  I laugh again as tears fall from my eyes. “How are we going to do this, John?” I ask, holding my wet cheeks in my hands.

  John takes my wrists and pulls my hands down. “We’ll have plenty of time to panic later, Rose. For now, let’s just be really happy.”

  I exhale. “Okay.”

  “I mean, look at us,” he says. “We’re badasses. If anyone can handle three babies, it’s us.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Nope.” He takes my hand again. “But I can’t wait to try.”

  We entwine fingers. “Yeah,” I say. “I can’t either.”

  “But you know what I am sure about?”

  “What?”

  “I’m sure… that this girl… will be way cuter than Junior’s girl was.”

  I throw my head back and laugh. “Oh, really?”

  “Oh, yeah. I guarantee it,” he says. “With your gorgeous looks and this handsome mug, there’s no contest.”

  “I’m gonna tell him you said that,” I tease.

  “Pfft. I ain’t afraid of Junior Morgan.”

  “What about Alyssa?”

  He hesitates. “Maybe a little.”

  I lie back and exhale the laugh from my lungs. “Two boys and a girl,” I say it again, still not believing it’s true.

  “So, what will she be?” he asks. “A Dana or a Ramona?”

  I draw a line across my upper belly, feeling the life stirring inside for a fleeting moment. “I think she feels like a Dana.”

  John nods. “Dana Darling Kirby has a nice ring to it.”

  I roll my eyes. “We are not naming her that.”

  “We’ll see.” He leans in and kisses me softly. “So, should we call them back in here?”

  I look at my husband, once again sensing a bit of movement inside of me. “No. Just a few more minutes.”

  “Perfect.”

  I kiss him. “I hope this moment lasts forever.”

  John smiles. “Yeah. Me too, Darling.”

  For a glimpse into the Kirby Family’s future, read their Extended Epilogue! Click here.

  HOME RUN BABY

  Two things I didn’t expect to happen to me over Spring Break at Chicago North University:

  1. Getting knocked out by a baseball.

  2. Getting knocked up by a baseball player.

  Hunter Novak. The most valuable player in college baseball. Home Run Hunter himself.

  But that’s not the name he gave me when he took me home from that bar a few months ago.

  We’re strangers. Now, we’re having a baby together.

  So, we’re going back to first base.

  First date. First kiss. First everything all over again in the hope it leads to... first love, I guess?

  Our baby deserves a family. A real family.

  Can me and my one-night stand be a home run?

  Or was it all just a major foul?

  For Mom

  (That’s far enough.

  Go do something else. Love ya!)

  CHAPTER 1

  DAISY

  November

  Oh, to be young and in love.

  Me? No. Not me. I’ve never been in love. I’m happy for my sister, though. I truly am.

  But if I hear John Kirby groan like that one more time, I’m gonna lose my shit.

  I press my head between two pillows, trying to ignore the rhythmic sounds carrying through the wall. You’d think after tonight’s game they’d be exhausted, but I suppose stamina generally isn’t an issue for college football players. Or frat guys. Fortunately for my sister, her boyfriend is both.

  Unfortunately for me, that means listening to them bang while they think I’m asleep.

  “Oh, fuck,” he groans again.

  Okay. That’s it.

  I sit upright on the sofa, exhaling hard as I reach for my phone. It’s just before midnight, but there has to be something still open at this hour. If not, a quick walk around campus should give them enough time to finish.

  I throw on some clothes and grab my jacket on the way out. It’s a crisp autumn night in Chicago, but there’s a spark in the air around Chicago North University. The Bearhawks won their final game and qualified for the championship for the first time in… a long time, I guess? I don’t go to this school, nor do I care much about college football, but it’s a big deal, apparently. And lucky me, I was there to see it all happen.

  I was there to see a man declare his love for my sister on national television.

  I swipe as I walk down the unfamiliar streets surrounding campus, running a search for the nearest bar.

  Closed, closed, closed— ah!

  Bruno’s. Open. Two blocks away.

  I head in that direction. That direction takes me through one severely run down neighborhood and two dark alleyways, but I’m not picky. As long as there’s booze.

  The second alley brings me to a bright red door. For a second, I think it might be closed. It’s a small place with only a few tables scattered about, all with chairs resting upside down on top. Empty barstools. Dim lights blend with red wallpaper, creating an atmosphere I can only describe as eerily romantic.

  I turn to leave, but a bartender appears from a curtain behind the bar and silently waves me inside.

  Well, hello there.

  I drift toward the bar, my eyes drawn to him as they adjust to the quiet lighting. He’s difficult to look away from, honestly. He’s no older than I am, early twenties and average in height. His black T-shirt hides a toned physique with a few bulging biceps threatening to tear the sleeves right off.

  I sit down at the bar, happy to stay.

  “What can I get you?” he asks me.

  “Whiskey sour, please,” I say, withdrawing my wallet to find my ID. He barely snipes it as he pulls a clean glass out from beneath the counter.

  As he fixes my drink, I take a closer look at him. Bright green eyes. Caramel-colored hair that’s just about an inch too long, but he makes it work. It wouldn’t surprise me if he moonlights as a model or something. Though, if he did, I doubt he’d work at a shithole like this.

  He glances at me. I look away. I focus instead on the old man sitting at the other end of the bar, hunched over a crossword puzzle with a tiny pencil in his wrinkled fingers. I hadn’t noticed him before. Quietly, I spin around in my stool to check the empty corners for other hidden patrons, but there’s no one else. Just the three of us.

  I hear my glass touch the counter behind me.

  “Here you go.”

  I face forward and nod without looking at him. “Thanks,” I say.

  He walks away, drifting to the other side to check on the old man while I waste no time tossing back my entire drink. I scan the wall above the bar. Photos and magazine articles. Local history, I guess. Nothing to get excited about.

  I lean forward to rest my head on my arm. With closed eyes, I exhale and listen to the dull music piping through the crackling jukebox in the corner.

  Rose and Johnny sitting in a tree.

  F-U-C-K-I-N—

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  I raise my head. Hot bar guy has returned.

  “Do they train bartenders to ask that?” I ask.

  “Actually, yes,” he says.

  “Really?”

  “Most drunks just want someone to listen to what they have to say. And most bars want to keep them talking for as long as possible because the longer they sit on that stool…”

  I raise my empty glass. “The more they imbibe.”

  He takes the glass to refill it. “Money in the register. Tips in the jar.”

  “That’s pretty skeevy.”

  He shrugs. “It’s just business.”

  I nod, watching him as he mixes my drink again. “So, I’m a drunk, eh?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it.”

  “Would that also imply that you want someone to listen to what you have to say?”

  “I don’t know.” I kick the leg of my stool with my heel. “This stool feels awfully flimsy to be a soapbox.”

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  “Do you actually enjoy listening to the slurred ramblings of anonymous bar patrons?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Do they train you to say that, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, basically, you’re full of shit.”

  He chuckles and leans forward, resting his elbows on the bar between us. “Wanna talk about it?” he asks again.

  I glance at the old man down the bar again before letting out a stiff sigh. “My sister is in love,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “With a man.”

  “All right.”

  “He loves her back. They’ve got that whole destined to be together, written in the stars thing going on. All that screaming at the football stadium tonight was for them.”

  “That’s what all that noise was?” he asks.

  “You didn’t watch the game?”

  He grimaces. “Not a football guy.”

  “Me neither.”

  “So you’re not happy she’s getting all this attention?” he asks.

  “What makes you think that?”

  He slides to the left and points over his shoulder, gesturing to the mirrored wall behind him.

  I look forward into my own reflection. Pale face. Black-lined eyes. A deep frown and a rather heavy cloud weighing on my shoulders.

  “Oh. Right.” I take a long sip from my whiskey, nearly draining half the glass, and a rush of dizziness plagues my head.

  “Let me guess,” he says, sidling back over. “She’s your younger sister?”

  “Older,” I say. “By about three minutes.”

  “You’re twins.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then, what’s up?” he asks. “You don’t like the guy?”

  “He’s all right.” I shrug. “Pretty good, actually.”

  “So, what is there to be unhappy about?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I say, “I adore my sister. She’s my life. My blood. Quite literally my reflection. She deserves to be loved. I could not be happier for her.”

  He waits. “But…?”

  I heave a breath. “Lately, it has become painfully obvious to me how unequal we are.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s a teacher,” I say. “She influences lives. She’s in grad school. She’s smart. Like really smart.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I didn’t even go to college.”

  “So?” He grabs the whiskey bottle and refills my glass. “I do. Worst decision I ever made.”

  “You’re a Northie, huh?” I ask.

  “That I am.”

  “Bad school?”

  “No, it’s a great school,” he says. “I’d just rather be elsewhere.”

  “That’s what I thought, too, but I wonder sometimes if having that one line of text on my résumé would have put me in a better place now.”

  “What do you do now?” he asks.

  “I take pictures.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing — if I actually got to take pictures I wanted to take instead of telling asshole kids to smile or snapping yet another damn glossy memory of a couple slicing into an overpriced, multi-tiered, gluten factory.”

  He laughs. “What would you rather be taking pictures of?”

  I look away, hesitating to say it. “Baseball,” I mutter.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to be a sports photographer?” he asks, raising a brow.

  I shrug. “It’s dumb, I know.”

  “It’s not,” he says. “That’s really cool.”

  “That’s also really competitive and surprisingly difficult to break into,” I say. “I’ve sent my portfolio to Sports Illuminated a dozen times over the last few years and never got one call back. And expensive. You’d be shocked to discover how long it takes to afford a professional telephoto lens when you make a buck over minimum wage.”

  He smiles. “And on top of all that, you’re single, too.”

  I glare. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Just a wild guess.”

  “Perpetually,” I say, taking another sip. “And I don’t even mean to be. I’ll meet a guy and it’ll be great for a while and then — suddenly — it’s not anymore. I could sit here all night and list off all sorts of bullshit reasons for why my relationships end, but the only thing they all have in common is me.” I point at my face. “This gal right here. Meanwhile, my twin sister is in love and having loud, disgusting sex in the next room with a guy who’s perfect for her and they’re probably going to be together forever and get married and have a bunch of babies, but I…” I sigh. “I am not. And it’s all my fault. Somehow.”

  “Look on the bright side,” he says. “At least you won’t have to secretly Photoshop your face onto your sister’s wedding photos to feel better about yourself. It’s already there.”