by Casey Morgan
I can’t wait to see which of my beautiful, handsome fiancés these babies look like! I can’t wait to make more babies, even after these three!
The moment I burst from the door separating the patients’ hallway from the rest of the waiting room, all five men were up on their feet. They were jogging toward me with concern in their eyes, as if I had gotten some really bad news, not the good I was busting at the seams to tell them.
“Gwendolyn,” said Alex, looking oddly serious and white despite his jokester personality. “What happened?”
“Yes,” said Eric, wandering up. “Please tell us.”
I waited, smiling infectiously.
Travis raised an eyebrow, while David began to look a little smug.
“I’m pregnant again,” I said, waiting and watching for their reactions.
It was much like mine. Silent and steady one moment, until comprehension dawned. And then all four of them were celebrating. Jumping around, hugging and kissing me. Hugging each other, though they looked a little disgusted afterwards. Travis particularly.
“With how many?” That was Eric. He swept his hair back, looking eagerly into my soul.
I smiled. “Triplets,” I said, hoping that one of the three bundles of joys looked just like him. Now that I had a daughter, I would love if these three babies were boys.
“Triplets?!” asked Travis, squeezing my ass cheeks where no one could see. “Now we will have four children. Maybe we should talk about adding on another room to the house.”
“Definitely,” I said.
I walked them all out with me, knowing I would have to call my brothers after all. Call them and tell them that I was not only getting married in a few weeks to the five men who had changed my life, but that I was giving birth to triplets. More babies in just nine months’ time. Brothers and sisters to little Cora. We would only need one more, to have as many babies as parents to take care of them.
Climbing into the car with my fiancés again, and messaging my brothers that I would call shortly, I murmured to Travis, and then to all of them, “Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean we’re stopping having sex. I expect to have a lot of it between now and my wedding. Definitely on my wedding night, along with some cake.”
David chuckled. “That we can do,” he said. “All of us.”
As I always wanted it to be. As it always should be, now and forever.
Epilogue
Gwendolyn
Christmas Eve
True to my visions of a winter wonderland, full of Christmas lights, white tuxes and ballroom dresses, my wedding (and wedding reception to follow) was everything I wanted it to be and more. Even little Cora was dressed in a white gown and wrapped in a white fun blanket. After finally finding a witch willing and able to officiate a commitment ceremony between me and my group of beautiful, selfless men, we were joined in unorthodox, unholy matrimony.
Five smaller separate pieces of cake, five separate toasts (thanks to my four brothers, who had warmed up enough to the idea of my five fiancés enough to come to the wedding, probably because they nearly equaled them in number, and wouldn’t hesitate to mess them up if they ever caught my husbands making me cry), and five separate first dances later, it was finally time for my new husbands and I to leave the glitter, glitz and sugar of our reception behind.
The tall fluted glasses of champagne and Christmas-themed food in the lobby of the old stone cathedral we’d somehow managed to convince to host us.
My brothers, all drunk and happy on copious amounts of alcohol, wedding cake and happiness for all of my good fortune and theirs (I decided to give some of my money to them and their business, as well as talk them up to patrons I thought were looking for a little ink), draped themselves on me as I went to leave and hugged and kissed me sloppily.
Jasper, as always, was the first. His trendy, hipster glasses barely stayed on his nose as he swaggered in for a hug.
“Congratulations, Gwendolyn,” he said softly, losing himself in all my gown’s lace and beadwork. “Didn’t think I was going to enjoy watching you get married to five guys at the same time” — here, he glanced at my four grooms, each dressed in immaculate white tuxedos, matching ties, top hats and gloves — “but I did. They are lucky to have you, and I hope they never forget that.”
Holland wandered up next, his fringy brown hair hanging in his eyes.
“Overachiever,” he said, “just like always. From zero to five, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “From no boyfriends to a whole gift pack, just in time for Christmas.”
Though I could tell he was a little bit jealous and afraid for me, there was love there, too. A desire for me to be happy, and well taken care of.
“One adorable baby and more babies on the way as well. Three little nephews or nieces for all of us to take care of, huh?”
He gave me a hug, hiccupping a little as he did, and then he pinched Cora’s cheek. The little girl didn’t stir from slumbering in Tina’s arms.
“We’re going to teach them how to use the tattoo guns when they’re young, so they can come work for us, sis.”
That was Crispin.
Seth, his mohawk dyed red and green for the holiday, and sprinkled with glitter for the wedding, punched Crispin’s shoulder.
“Not before we teach them how to draw, numb nuts. Then to use art books and then sketch paper, and then trace paper.”
Crispin nodded, running his hands through his boy-band hairdo.
“Then we teach them how to use the tattoo guns. Whether they’re a boy or a girl.” He swigged down some more champagne. When he finished, he winked at me. “Congratulations, sis. Hope your honeymoon is a good one. Hope they keep you up all night.”
“Eating their lucky charms,” said Seth, waggling his tongue at me. It was still pierced, even after he had spent years being nagged by various girlfriends to get rid of it. “Or them getting to eat yours.”
“Seth, don’t be gross,” I said, smiling in spite of myself.
“What? It is what you guys are going to do. It’s what everybody does on their wedding night, man.”
Seth imitated men and women getting it on, with sound and gesture.
Behind this, Crispin and Holland began harmonizing some R&B song. Some Michael Jackson about love and early mornings. They didn’t keep it up long, though, and soon dissolved into a pile of laughter and hiccupping.
“Love you all so much,” I said, grateful for their presence. If they hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had anyone from my family to witness my special day.
“Jasper. Holland. Crispin. Seth,” I said, hugging and kissing them each. “I love you, and I’m so glad I have such good brothers.”
“We are lucky to have you as a sister. Our one and only,” said Crispin, getting serious for a moment. “You know, you really balance us all out.”
Jasper threw up his hands in a hallelujah gesture. “You absolutely do. I hate to think of what our family would be without your feminine touch, Gwendolyn. Congratulations again. But you really should get on with your evening. Get on with your celebration, before the roads ice up for good.”
I nodded, kissed Cora’s head and allowed my husbands to take the place of my brothers. Eric was first, taking me under one of my arms. Travis next, with David and Robert behind him, and Alex up front for once. We all waved to Tina, Cora, my brothers and all our guests.
“Have fun! Thanks for inviting us!” Shanna called out.
We had everyone from Luck’s Hollow there at our reception, of course. We wouldn’t even be there if it wasn’t for them, after all.
I was glad they had all been able to come from Ireland to help us celebrate our big day. They had even brought Kelsey, a single girl that all my brothers seemed to be into. They couldn’t stop fighting over which one of them would get to dance with her during the reception, and had ended up all taking turns.
“Bye!” I called out to them. “See you soon!”
We had made plans to go to Luck’s Hollow, Ireland a
nd visit them next. I thought about inviting my brothers— they had never been out of the country and would enjoy vacationing in Ireland. I wanted to show them there was more to life than what was available to us in small Love’s Hollow, New York.
In formation, my five new husbands and I all exited the church, and headed toward the big, white and shiny limousine that was waiting for us, headlights on. Snowflakes were captured in the beams like thin, magical wishes. Lace that had escaped being made into a wedding gown, and left to flutter in the cold, late-evening breeze.
Carefully we all descended the steps, and made work of the sidewalk. While it was an icy anymore, there was plenty of salt still present. Enough to make slipping an actual hazard for me. An activity I wanted to avoid, now that I was beginning to show my pregnancy. I felt the weight and size of three babies growing within me.
With this in mind, Alex got in the car first, to help me inside. David and Robert stayed close behind me, ready and willing to catch me should I fall. Travis and Eric stayed at my sides, stabilizing me like tripod legs all the way through. All the way up and into the cab. Even when I sat down, they didn’t leave their posts. Their places at my side.
Tonight I became a wife. Soon I would become a mother, again. My restaurant and pub were flourishing. And it was all because the Seeding Spell— which apparently needed all six of us to work— had saved us.
I was the happiest witch in the world, and I couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life with my five handsome husbands.
THE END
The books in the Luck’s Hollow series are:
The Spell of Three
The Spell of Four
The Spell of Five
The Spell of Six
Click here to see all the books in the Luck’s Hollow series!
Alpha’s Valentine’s Day Virgin
A Wolf Shifter Paranormal Romance
A standalone full-length novel in the
Alpha’s Virgin series (Book 4).
Copyright © 2019 Casey Morgan; All Rights Reserved.
Chapter One
Celeste
One Week from Valentine’s Day
The recipe called for one and a half cups of chocolate chips, but I threw in another half-cup for good measure. Mom would reprimand me if she saw what I was doing, but she and Dad were in the back, working in the kitchen proper, while I was out here minding the front counter of the bakery.
We hadn’t had any customers in a few hours, so to keep from getting bored, I made my own batches of cookies to sell. Only during the slow times, when I was up front on my own, did I get to experiment with baking. The rest of the time, what my parents said, went.
I dumped the chocolate chips into the bowl of the old ivory mixer and watched as they stuck lightly into the batter. Then I flipped the switch and the mixer zoomed into life; its beater cut into the batter, making it sway and twist. The noise of the motor was a consistent and soothing buzz.
My parents had had the mixer for years. I had a vague memory of it running the first night they adopted me. And honestly, it had been run every day of my life since then. Its sound was soothing in a way nothing else ever was. It was a sound that said home for me, just like the baking of cookies and pastries.
Mom burst through one of the swinging double doors that leads back to the kitchen, having hit it with her boney hip, and carried a tray of strudel to the front display case. As she passed me, she eyed the ivory mixer and tuts.
“Celeste.”
She frowned. The expression pulled her narrow face even narrower.
“You know we don’t have the money to waste ingredients. Less chips, not more. Save the chocolate chips for the cookie baskets we need to make for Valentine’s Day.”
She leaned down and unlocked the display case, so she could slip the tray she was holding inside. The smell of the fresh baked strudel was wonderful, and I took in a deep breath. I loved the scent of cooked apples and dough.
Mom noticed my inhale, and then she reached over and pinched me on the hip. It was her silent reminder for me to keep out of the baked goods. She thought I was getting fat. I liked to think of myself as pleasantly plump.
“People love chocolate chips, Ma,” I told her, inching out of the reach of her pinching fingers. “They always ask for the cookies that have the most. The rest don’t sell.”
She hissed under her breath and continued stoking the display case, making sure that each and every item was perfectly in line with the next. “Not like we have many customers anyway,” she muttered. “This was a booming part of town when your father and I opened, now look! Everyone is gone, run off by these gangs or ruffians.”
I nodded politely. This was a complaint she made often.
Not that it wasn’t true. Our little town of Gray Acres, Minnesota was slowly being abandoned. The industrial air conditioner parts factory that used to be the center of town closed three years ago, and now people had had to move to find other jobs.
But not us – my father was determined to hold his ground; like this little bakery was the castle of his kingdom and not a run-down shop with a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor.
I understand, it was the only home I’ve ever known — or at least the only home I could remember. Most of my memories from the time before I was adopted were gone or just a confusing mess of images.
The Crescent Moon Bakery was my family’s whole life. My parents, Robert and Martha Blenko, were immigrants from the Ukraine. This shop was their little piece of the American Dream, so giving it up would be a huge loss.
But with the violence increasing every day and the shops closing around us, sometimes it seemed like it wasn’t worth holding on to and we should have just moved. If we had been able to afford it, we probably would have, by now.
“Blenkos don’t give up,” Dad constantly told me, even though we had been in the red financially for months and barely able to eat.
He was determined to stay. His steadfastness didn’t even waver when the Southland gang — the ones who caused the violence — started asking for payments for protection. I had wanted to tell them no. Dad, however, struck a deal and gave them a portion of our ever-shrinking grocery budget.
I let out a soft sigh, frustrated with my parents and the situation. My mother’s sharp ears heard it and she turned quickly to look at me. Her brown eyes pulled up into slits under her black eyebrows.
“No more wasting ingredients, Celeste.”
She wiped her flour covered hands on the old blue apron she always wore when she was baking, and glared at me with hard, tired eyes.
“We don’t have the money and you don’t need to be wasting your time with cookie batches we don’t need, and you end up eating.”
This time she reached over and pinched my cheek.
I shuffled out of her reach again and shrugged.
“What else am I supposed to do, Ma? There’re no customers and you won’t let me take college classes. Come on, just one class and at least I would have homework to do when it’s slow.”
She grabbed one of the rags we keep nearby and started to wipe down the counters —something I’d already done a few times today, in my boredom.
“You know what your father said,” she muttered. “You already get too many heathen ideas from that phone we allow you to have and from the TV you watch and the books you read. We don’t need to pay someone to teach you more. Maybe you should bring your Bible out here to read?”
I sighed again and shook my head. This was another argument we had all the time.
I was twenty-three. High school was long gone and most of my friends with it. They had moved to find jobs or go off to college. But both those ideas were abhorrent to my overly religious parents.
I was not to leave the house until I found a husband — a husband that was from our church, no less — and until that time I was to work at the bakery. Not that I minded the work, I loved to bake.
It was something I planned to do for the rest of my life and teach to my
children — if I ever had any. It was just hard to keep busy with so few customers.
The timer went off and I stopped the mixer. Mom gave me another glare but then quickly raised her boney shoulders in a shrug.
“Go ahead and bake them,” she told me. “Might as well, since the dough is made. But, Celeste,” she raised a lean finger and put it in my face, “no more after this!”
I nodded and she stormed back into the kitchen, leaving me alone. I already had the cookie sheet on the counter next to the mixer and covered with parchment paper, so I pulled the silver bowl from the mixer and started on the next step.
I pinched the dough—just like Ma had pinched me earlier—and pulled off a little chunk. Then, I rolled it into a ball and set it to the paper. When the dough was all rolled out, I would squish each ball with a spoon.
It was a process I had been familiar with since I was five years old and my parents had started to let me bake. It was repetitive work that let my mind wander.
I glanced over the counter that separated the seating area from the back of the bakery. The five round wooden tables and their chairs were clean, but empty. I had scrubbed them down that morning, hoping to see the place full by nine a.m., but the morning rush never came.
It was another slow day, where we were lucky to have one or two souls wander in on their way to work, hungry for our muffins beforehand.
A flash caught my attention and I looked out the front windows. Snow was falling lightly outside, big fat flakes that stuck to the already accumulated snow and covered everything with a blanket of white.
Everything was silent—hushed, like time had slowed, and I was trapped in a never-ending loop of being bored and making cookies.
I dropped my head back down to my work, rolling out another ball of dough. I really hated not being allowed to go to college.