by JJ Knight
“You intend to keep it a secret?” I ask.
“Rebel will ask eventually.”
“Did you make a notation on the birth certificate? That’s public record.”
She bites her lip. “I did something terrible on that.”
“Oh?”
“I wrote ‘Edward Cullen.’”
“The sparkly vampire?”
“Yeah.”
Another couple closes in from behind, and we pause by a flower arrangement to let them pass. “That will take some legal maneuvering to remove,” I say.
“Not as much as you think. Since dear Edward wasn’t there to sign the affidavit of paternity, he won’t go on the official birth certificate. I only wrote something on the form to get the evil nurse off my back.”
“I remember her.”
“She stuck around like I was the only thing getting her through the pearly gates one day.”
We arrive at the back door of the gardens. A string quartet plays outside, set up beneath a small white canopy with blue flags flying.
“So it begins,” I say.
We walk along the white path, following the other guests headed to the wedding site. As the music fades behind us, another band becomes audible. This time it’s a brass trio, playing a livelier tune.
Their bright music gets us all the way to the large gazebo at the end of the path. Here we walk across an expanse of green to the rows of white chairs set up in front of a large white stage dressed in white roses.
On one side, a larger arrangement of musicians plays lilting classical music—Chopin, I believe.
Everything faces the castle, and the silvery-blue accents of the castle exactly match the flags flying over the stage, as well as the ribbons and accent flowers.
They have this down.
A uniformed usher in gray and blue holds out his arm to Havannah. “The bride and groom consider all the guests to be part of their circle, so you may choose either side,” he says.
“On the left, then,” Havannah says.
I follow them to a row partway up. Havannah crosses to the last seat, and I take my place beside her.
“I want an easy getaway in case the nanny needs me,” she says.
“Good call.”
We’ve arrived ahead of the masses, and the seats quickly fill in around us. We spot Magnolia, John Paul, and Malina, who slide into the second row on the other side.
“I’m glad I get to sit with you,” Havannah says. “Did you want to find Dell? We’re about to be surrounded.”
“We can find them at the reception.”
“I didn’t think about the dinner. I assume they will have stuck me with my family instead of you.” She purses her lips into an adorable pout.
“There’s no set seating. There will be a half-dozen cuisine choices to take to any table.”
She grins. “I love that!”
I squeeze her hand.
The musicians stop playing, and a hush falls over the guests. A new, lively march begins, and Max climbs the steps to the stage, followed by Anthony, his eldest brother Jason, and their father Sherman. They stand in almost identical poses, hands clasped behind their backs, as the first bridesmaid appears from the back.
There’s a murmur because this woman is extraordinary. I remember her from last night. Six feet tall, easy, and her muscles make me feel like I should go hit the gym before bed. Her dark skin gleams in the early evening light. Her stride is confident, like a model’s.
Havannah leans in. “Two of Camryn’s bridesmaids are bodybuilders,” she says. “Aren’t they amazing?”
The second one arrives. She’s not as tall as the first one, but perfectly tan. When she passes, her back looks like it should be on an ad for protein supplements.
“Impressive,” I whisper.
Havannah slugs my arm playfully.
“If you’re into that,” I add.
The maid of honor arrives, delicate and petite. She also sports a killer tan. Behind her, the littlest Pickle child Caden walks solemnly with a white satin pillow, concentrating hard.
Havannah leans close. “I heard Jason slid on the floor of the hospital when Greta was in labor with him, thinking he’d need to catch the baby.”
I nod. “Dell told me about it. It’s part of the family lore.”
We chuckle quietly at the boy, who is so intent on watching the pillow that he veers off course and runs into one of the chairs. The guest pats his head and points to the stage.
Once Caden has made it to the front, a ripple of laughter begins at the back of the crowd. It moves forward, and Havannah and I glance at each other, wondering if some cute flower girl is making a spectacle.
But then we spot her. Granny Alma, the elderly grandmother of the Pickle clan, grasps a handful of petals and dumps them on the ground.
“It’s a flower granny.” Havannah giggles. “I’ve heard some brides are doing that!”
One of the male guests on the row opposite us claps his hand over his mouth to suppress his laughter. Alma pauses to give him a cold stare. Then she snatches another fistful of petals and chucks them in his face.
The entire crowd bursts out laughing.
“She showed him,” I say.
Alma spreads more petals on the stairs and throws a good number at the feet of the three brothers, who hold their smirks in line. Then she settles on the front row by the cousins.
The music changes, and a woman holding a red book comes on stage and motions for everyone to stand.
Because we’re at the far end of the row, it takes a moment to spot the bride. Even in the stacked platforms Max said Camryn was going to wear, she’s tiny.
We don’t get a good look until she starts up the steps to the stage. Her train is miles long, flowing down the silver-lined stairs even when she’s at the top. Her hair is piled on top of her head, the lace veil falling down her back.
“She walked alone,” Havannah whispers. “Look. Her parents are in the seats.”
Max mentioned that, too. Camryn didn’t expect her parents to come, but they didn’t pass up an all-expenses-paid trip to France. They aren’t close, and her brother didn’t bother. Camryn decided her father wasn’t worthy of the honor of giving her away. She wanted to move into the next part of her life on her own.
But she turns to Max, and the happy expressions on both of their faces, and the way Sherman Pickle steps forward to kiss her forehead, tells us she is in good hands. Her true family has found her.
Havannah and I clasp our hands tightly as the ceremony moves forward. They repeat the standard vows, standing close together.
The backdrop is spectacular, and I can see the stars in Havannah’s eyes as Max kisses his bride and fireworks pop as the sun sets behind the castle.
She loves a good fairytale.
If she wants one of her own, I’m the man for the job.
21
Havannah
I can’t get over how amazing everything is.
The ceremony was short, but the reception ought to have an entire TV series scripted about it, because I can’t stop looking and gasping.
There are swans in a small lake surrounded with flowers. Three music stages are set far apart. One is classical, one swing dancing, and one has a singer covering pop songs.
After the photos are done and Diya has taken Rebel back to her room, Donovan and I wander the gardens. We can have anything we might want to eat. There’s the Italian station, the French buffet, the Asian cuisine, steaks, lobster, an entire table devoted to cheese, and, of course, a deli cart with Pickle specialties.
And the fountains. A champagne one. A chocolate one. A wine one. Two with fondue.
Donovan and I move from one place to the next, sampling everything until I’m afraid I’ll have to be cut out of the dress.
He knows how to dance everything, of course. He shows me a waltz at the main stage, then we spin to a jazz number with the swing band. After trading dances with Magnolia and Anthony, we wander back to the singer’s
stage and press tightly together as she belts out a classic rock ballad.
When my milk feels ready to explode out of my chest and the dress is painfully tight, I excuse myself, leaving Donovan with Dell and Arianna, to go visit Rebel.
Grace has gone to bed, and Diya sits in the dim light of their room, rocking Rebel on her shoulder. “Good timing,” she says. “He was hungry a bit ago, but I settled him.”
“I’ll feed him.”
“I can let you into Donovan’s room.”
We head into the hall, and she punches the code to enter. It’s dark and smells of him in that woodsy linen way I’ve come to recognize.
“I’ll be next door when you’re done,” Diya says, and quietly closes the door.
I drop the top of the dress and lie on the bed, Rebel beside me. My hair will be a bit mussed, but that’s okay. It’s night, and only the food stations are lit well enough for anyone to see clearly.
Rebel latches easily, wrapping his tiny hand around my finger. I sigh and think over the evening. It’s been like a dream. I can’t believe I almost missed it entirely.
Donovan has been a perfect date, charming and attentive. I feel like I’ve known him forever. When I close my eyes, I see his face.
I glance around his room. It’s neat, his suits carefully spaced in the closet. Only a few bits, a watch and charger and a key chain, sit on his dresser.
I breathe in all the lovely smells. The castle, Donovan’s aftershave, and the sweet scent of the baby. It’s a perfect moment, and I wish I could stay right here, have Donovan come in, and I can almost pretend we’re a family.
Rebel pops off his latch with an unhappy cry. He’s hungry. I flip over and attach him to the other side. Just a few minutes and I can return to the party.
I want to dance more, hold Donovan close. Mostly, I never want the night to end.
“Another waltz, another slow dance. And maybe one more serving of chocolate-dipped strawberries,” I tell Rebel.
I hear a soft click and turn. It’s Donovan, standing in the doorway. “Your wish is my command.”
“Oh!”
“Diya let me know you were in here. And I see I have a beautiful woman in my bed.”
“And a newborn.”
“And a cool and clever little tyke.” He kneels by the bed and strokes Rebel’s head. “Looks like he’s getting a good meal in.”
“The milk has to taste so wild after all the different meals I’ve had,” I say. “But he’s into it.”
I watch him watch the baby, the tiny jaw working. A happy glow spreads through my belly. So this is what it could be like. But would it? Our time is so short.
I almost ask him how long we’ll stay in France, when he has to get back. But I don’t. I want the dream to seem endless. To know when it will be over is to already acknowledge it will end. And I don’t want to.
Donovan’s gaze lifts to meet mine. “I think he’s nodded off.”
I glance down. Rebel has let go, completely zonked.
“I’ll let Diya burp him in case he decides he needs to experiment in explosive spit-up.”
As soon as the words are out, I want to retract them. So sexy, Havannah.
“You want me to take him?”
“Sure. I have to tidy up a bit.”
Donovan lifts Rebel to his chest. The baby expels a big burp, and I hold my breath, sure he’s going to wreck Donovan’s suit.
But nothing comes out. Donovan heads into the hall to return him to Diya while I race to Donovan’s small bathroom. I flip on the light.
Oh my. Smudged eyeliner. A crease on my cheek. My dress is askew. The necklace has shifted.
I quickly repair what I can and press my hand to my cheek. Even with all the flaws, though, I see a light in my face that hasn’t been there in a while. With the craziness of the last year, my bad patch, the resulting man-fest, then the pregnancy, I haven’t felt like myself in a long, long time.
But I’m coming back. I see it. I almost forgot what it looks like to be confident and content, not worried or strung out all the time.
Donovan comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Hey, beautiful. You ready for those dances?”
I watch his face in the mirror. “Maybe.”
“Or?”
“Maybe we can dance right here.”
He grins, his lips near my ear. I settle against him, my body relaxing.
“Right here is good,” he says.
“Unless you were thinking about cake.”
“Why would anyone want cake when they have you to devour?”
A small shudder ripples through me.
He walks us to the bedroom, and his hands skim my body, up the sides of my waist, cupping both breasts at once. A long sigh escapes me. He shifts the fall of curls to press his lips to my neck.
Another shiver.
This is nothing like the kiss before we left, or the interrupted moment at the hotel. And so much more relaxed than the encounter in the garden.
We have time. Quiet. Privacy.
The room is dim from the nursing session. The only suggestion of the wedding is a faraway hint of music from the closest band.
Donovan’s fingers find my collarbone, sliding across my skin. My chin lifts, giving him space, turning myself over to him.
The zipper of my dress slides down, exposing my back to the cool air. He slides the fabric off one shoulder, moving his gentle kisses to the newly exposed parts of me.
The bra strap goes with it, one side, then the other.
The bodice falls, and he unhooks the bra, tugging it away to land on the floor. His hands are gentle, fingertips brushing lightly across my nipples, cupping me carefully.
I lean into him, his strong chest pressed to my back. We stay there a moment, his hands warm on me, relishing the stillness, the silence. Then he releases me a moment to shrug out of his suit jacket, tossing it to the foot of the bed.
This is happening. Finally, we’re here, taking our time.
He turns me around and lifts my chin. His mouth claims mine, his hands on my body, holding me against him, squeezing my waist.
My arms go around his neck, then slide to the front to loosen his tie. I remember that first dinner when I tied his into my hair. I have it tucked in a drawer at home.
The silk slides through his collar with a quiet hiss. I toss it onto his suit jacket.
Each button on his shirt is another tiny thrill. I’m undressing this perfect, charismatic man. When I reach the bottom, I find his wrist and bring it around front to unfasten the cuff link, one, then the other. I palm the bits of gold while he kisses me then shrugs out of his shirt.
Beneath, his undershirt is silky cotton, like the very best sheets. I want to pet it, but he steps back for a moment, tugging the back of the neck and pulling it over his head.
I take the moment to drop the cuff links on the table by the bed. I can’t easily slip out of my shoes due to the straps, so I leave them, shimmying sideways until the dress falls into a heap.
I step out of it, trying not to think about my belly as I stand in the moonlight from the window, wearing only panties and the clear heels.
Donovan steps out of his dress shoes, but I come forward to unbuckle his belt. I have no idea what nights we might have ahead of us, so I will treat each one like the last.
The leather slides fluidly through the loops. A small button opens the waistband, and another hiss of a zipper lets him free, pressing against the soft cotton boxers.
He shifts, and the pants fall. He steps aside, leaving behind both the pants and his socks.
With my shoes on and his off, our height differential is less. I can almost look into his eyes.
“I want to kiss everything,” he whispers against my jaw.
“Yes.” My nipples tighten, and I wonder for a fearful second if it will cause my milk to drop. But it doesn’t. Thank goodness I just nursed.
He releases me and turns to the bed, drawing down the covers. I shift the fall of my ha
ir behind my shoulder.
He turns back to me, his hand cradling my neck, a thumb caressing the hollow of my throat. “You’re perfect,” he says.
My first urge is to argue with him. My belly. My stretch marks. But I’m not allowed to speak when his mouth crashes into mine.
Everything bursts into heat at once. The fire licks through my belly, between my legs, in every place he touches.
My mouth is scorched, my skin aflame where his hand grasps one breast and the other reaches behind to press me against him.
I want those boxers gone, I want to feel him, so I grasp the elastic and tug them down.
He springs against my belly, hot and throbbing. The need courses through me, as fast and intense as last night.
But Donovan has no intention of hurrying.
His mouth moves along my body, down my jaw to my neck, between my breasts. He pulls me against him, and suddenly my feet aren’t on the ground. He’s lifted me and laid me on the cool sheets.
He leans over me, hands on either side of my body. We only touch where his mouth leaves warm trails.
He kisses down my belly, his tongue dipping into my navel. Then he continues his journey, hands on the waist of my panties, sliding them down.
I lift up, and he drags them down, his lips inching along my thigh, down my knee and to my shins.
He pauses to unbuckle the straps of my shoes. They hit the floor with one thunk, then another.
Then the panties come down my ankles in a whisper and are gone.
He shifts his mouth to the other leg, making his way back up.
I could set off fire alarms with the raging heat of my need for him. I press my hands into the pillow, gripping it as he slides inside my thigh, then finds his destination.
He spreads me wide and dives in, thumb circling my nub, breathing hot against everything tender and desperate for him.
I want to hold out, let him take his time, but I spiral quickly, the ache moving into a pulse.
“Oh, Donovan,” I cry, tightening against his mouth. The heat becomes a flash across my body, and petals from the flowers in my hair flutter across the pillow as I arch my back.
