Eyes bleary, I padded down the hallway, two bottles in hand. The nursery was dark, and I shook my head and kept on walking. At the door to our bedroom, I paused to take in the scene. Logan was sprawled on the bed, back against the headboard, with Lizzy curled in the crook of his arm, and Lucky on his back on top of his daddy’s legs.

“What do you think is going to happen next?” Logan asked, smiling at our babies as he turned the page of the picture book. “I think the little pig is in deep shit.”

I bit down a grin as he continued with the story, adding little sound effects. There was huffing and puffing, and a loud crash when the first pig lost his house. Lizzy started to fuss, but Logan didn’t miss a beat. He kept right on reading as he rocked her gently, and she quieted down.

We’d never planned on twins. But when it came to the sorcery that was in vitro fertilization, sometimes you got more than you bargained for. Plus, according to Logan—super sperm. He had it. He knew it. And there was no convincing him otherwise. He wasn’t the least bit shocked when the doctor confirmed that our surrogate had two buns in the oven. Since I was sure that my eggs were faulty, I was worried enough for both of us.

But nine months after the first IVF treatment, and only fourteen months after Logan and I married in a little church in Nashville, Elizabeth Paige and Logan Sean made their debut.

Lizzy and Lucky.

Lizzy was born first. Dark blond hair that flirted with brunette. Amber eyes like mine. Face shaped like a heart.

I loved her at first sight. A deep, abiding love that I knew could never be duplicated.

Until Lucky entered the world two minutes later. Bright blue eyes like his daddy. A shock of black hair. He was the quiet one. Circumspect. Like a little old man in a tiny baby body.

I pulled myself out of my daydream when Logan noticed me standing there.

A smile curved his lips, and I wondered how he did it—made me feel sexy with spit up on my night shirt and my dirty hair in a top knot. But he did. His gaze followed me as I crossed the room and climbed onto the bed.

“Look who’s here,” he said to Lizzy who blinked up at him with adoring eyes. “It’s Mama.”

Gently, I lifted Lucky off his daddy’s legs and my baby boy gave me a sleepy smile. I sifted through his hair, and his heavy lids fell to half-mast.

Scooting closer to Logan, I rested my head on his shoulder.

“What should we read next?” he asked Lizzy, and then took a moment as if she might answer. But at six months old, that wasn’t going to happen, no matter how gifted my husband proclaimed our children to be.

“Winnie the Pooh it is,” he said, reaching for another book from the pile on his nightstand.

Lifting my gaze, I peered up at the man I loved. And God, how I loved him. And our life. So much that it scared me sometimes, because how could I be this happy? How could anyone?

Logan smiled, looking down at me. “What’s the matter, Mama, you don’t like the Pooh?”

“I like the Pooh. Read me the Pooh.”

He brushed a kiss to my forehead, snuggled a little closer, and then he did just that.