Chapter 245 WILD HEARTS TAMED [ACE AND AMARA]
CHAPTER 295: WILD HEARTS TAMED \[ACE AND AMARA\]
EPILOGUE THREE
ACE’S POINT OF VIEW
If you had told me back in our Westridge days, when I was the guy who carried the evidence of my trauma like a shield; the guy who only lived off chaos, and the havoc he wreaked, the guy who’d sworn off love, and any form of emotional connections, that I would one day trade my craziness for a spitfire of a woman, and a pair of toddlers who treat me like a human jungle gym, I would have bet my entire inheritance against you.
But I’m a gambler…….And it turns out, for the first time in my life, I finally hit the jackpot.
"Ace! If you don't catch your son before he tackles the Christmas tree, I am taking your limited edition card sets and throwing them in the lake! I worked hard on that thing; so if I have to reassemble it for the third time in the past hour, I swear to….”
I lunged across the living room, sliding on the hardwood floor and catching four-year-old Jax by the waist just as he was about to launch himself at a gold glass ornament. Before I could even stand up, his twin brother, Nico, was already on my back, pulling at my hair with the grip of a professional wrestler.
"I’ve got 'em, Amara! Control your lions!" I shouted back, laughing as I collapsed onto the rug with a twin on each shoulder.
Amara walked into the living room, looking like a goddess even in leggings and a simple top. She had pieces of fabric stuck in her hair, and on the other end, there were bits of flour in them. She was the only woman who had ever truly seen through my bluff. She didn't just win my heart; she dismantled the house of cards I’d built around it as a protective shield.
I stifled a laugh, not ready to risk another night on the couch. I’d screwed up by falling asleep while on watch duty with the boys, so I’m still under punishment. “Baking again, baby?” Amara was a talented woman; the very best I’d ever seen. However, she had one flaw…she cannot bake for shit; not like I can. The boys love baked goods, so she’s in a self-launch competition against me to see who is the better baker. So far…it’s resulted in melted croissant dough, bread as hard as wood, salty doughnuts, and tasteless melted cake.
Today, she planned on baking cookies for our Christmas dinner, but it didn’t seem to be going well.
"Ace Mercer, I swear to god, if you dare…..if I catch you with so much as a chuckle, talk less of a laugh, you are sleeping in the garage tonight instead of the couch," Amara warned, narrowing her eyes as she wiped a smudge of flour off her cheek, only to leave a streak of white across her forehead.
I held up my hands in mock surrender, swallowing the laughter in my throat while still pinned to the floor by two giggling toddlers. "I’m not laughing! I’m... admiring the dedication. The grit. The experimental nature of your culinary arts."
"It’s a chemistry problem," she muttered, looking back toward the kitchen where a faint smell of something suspiciously like burnt rubber was wafting through the air. "I make the very best clothes for women all over the world, but for some reason, baking a stupid box of cookies is the hardest thing I can do.” She ended that on a sad note.