How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue

She gazed at the small bedside lamp off to the side, her mind wandering

restlessly, picturing what her daughter might look like. Would she resemble her more, or would she take after Jarrod?

She'd heard people say daughters often look like their fathers.

The thought made her glance up at Jarrod's profile, quiet and composed in the dim light.

His features were striking-sharp yet harmonious, his nose high and elegant but not harsh, a single mole at the bridge giving him a hint of mystery. His eyelids were perfectly creased, and his lips, set against his pale skin, looked almost vividly red. Every detail of his face seemed carefully carved, refined to the last line.

She'd always known-there weren't many faces out there to rival Jarrod's.

If their daughter looked like him...

Well, there'd be nothing to complain about.

She must have stared too long. Her gaze lingered, almost unwittingly, on his lips for a few heartbeats.

Realizing it a moment too late, Elodie's spine stiffened. She averted her eyes quickly, feeling a warm flush creep up to her ears.

She shut her eyes, determined to clear her mind of all these tangled thoughts.

The second her eyelids closed, Jarrod glanced over, catching that awkward, flustered expression of hers for a split second.

silent, fleeting smile tugged at the

woke to find the other side of the

rubbed her eyes and sat

answer from the

mirror, checking her

to prevent complications and balance her recovery. The full course would take some time to finish. She just had to push through a little

she

already bustling about

housekeeper smiled, eyes crinkling. "Morning, Mrs.

Elodie nodded. "Where's Jarrod?"

see it was already nine. She almost never slept in

not to wake you. He had some urgent business at

go,

seeing a photo of her

was all she could think about

that he was at the office,

meeting today-a session with several pilots to conduct a detailed review of the aircraft Nothing too formal,

nove

at a private club

had to be there