Next to them, Bridget and Rhys’s daughter watched their roughhousing with a mystified expression that was far too mature for her years.
With her blond hair and gray eyes, little Camilla von Ascheberg was a miniature clone of her parents. She also looked surprisingly regal for a two-year-old in her blue dress and matching hair bow.
Her brow scrunched when Josh and Niko accidentally knocked over a glass of water.
“Daddy.” She tugged on her father’s sleeve and pointed at the spill.
I could’ve sworn I heard a note of disapproval.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.” Rhys sighed. “Happens every year.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but Rhys’s kid is the only one who isn’t a little terror,” I muttered to Stella. At least Camilla had the decency to sit still.
I watched, appalled, as Sofia played with Alex’s hair.
“Daddy! Braids!” She twisted the strands into something that did not resemble a braid in any way, shape, or form. ”Look!”
“They look great,” he said indulgently while she continued to massacre his perfectly styled hair.
I was convinced an imposter had swapped bodies with the normally ice-cold Alex the day he became a father. It didn’t make sense.
Stella laughed. “The twins are adorable, and you know it.”
“I know no such thing,” I said, even though, as far as children went, Sofia and Niko were pretty cute.
I glanced back at Rhys.
“I thought seeing you whipped for one girl was bad,” I drawled as he and Bridget cooed over a now giggling Camilla. “Two is even worse.”
Now that the game had ended, the rest of the group had broken off to do their own thing until dinner.
Josh was still trying (and failing) to get Niko to say Uncle Josh is a winner.
Ava was taking pictures of Alex and Sofia, who had moved on to climbing over her father like he was a jungle gym.
Stella sat next to me, watching our conversation with amusement. She was used to my strange friendship with Rhys. Once, she tried to call it a bromance, which I shut down immediately.
Ab-so-fuckinglutely not. I was not a bromance kind of guy, and neither was Rhys, who appeared unfazed by my last comment.
“You talk a lot of sh—fudge for someone who’s already eaten words once,” he amended when Bridget gave him a warning look.
“Come on, sweetie. Let’s go look at the pretty flowers while your father, uh has a chat with Uncle Christian.” She scooped up Camilla and took her out to the gardens, no doubt worried we would slip into profanity at any second.
“I’ll also be back,” Stella said quickly. “I’m going to get some water.”
I waited until she left before I arched an eyebrow at Rhys. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t, Mr. I Don’t Believe in Love.”
Aggravation lit in my chest. “Are you still going on about that? It’s been five…” I lowered my voice so Sofia and Niko couldn’t hear. “Five fucking years.”
“Oh, I’m going to give you shit about it for the rest of our lives, so get used to it,” Rhys said. “And when you have children, you’ll eat your words again.” He leaned back and laced his hands behind his head with a smug smile. “Good track record of that happening.”
I couldn’t stand his ass.
Before I could respond, Stella poked her head out from the kitchen. “Christian? Can you come here? I need your help with something.”
“Be right there.” I rose and pinned a laughing Rhys with a cool stare. “While I help my wife, you think about when Camilla grows up and starts dating,” I said, wiping the smile off his face. “Have fun.”
Satisfaction filled me when I heard his low growl.
When I walked into the kitchen, I found Stella downing what must’ve been her fifth glass of water that night.
“Are you sure you don’t want any wine?” She wasn’t a big drinker, but she usually had a glass or two. “It’s a great vintage.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She set her glass down and looked at me with an oddly nervous expression. “I can’t drink alcohol right now.”
She said it with meaning, like I was supposed to know what that meant.
Why would it matter that she wasn’t drinking alcohol? Granted, it was a bit odd that she…
I can’t drink alcohol right now.
I replayed her words.
Can’t. Not don’t want to.
She couldn’t drink alcohol, which likely meant…
My pulse slowed into one long, disbelieving beat.
“I didn’t want to tell you in front of the others, but I also couldn’t wait anymore.” Stella’s voice lowered. “Christian, I’m pregnant.”
“You’re pregnant,” I repeated.
The words echoed in my head, too gilded with shock to sink in fully.
Stella confirmed with a nod, her face glowing with equal parts excitement and nervousness.
Pregnant. Babies. Our baby.
The breath left my lungs in one fell swoop.
I closed the distance between us with two long strides and kissed her fiercely, my heart thudding hard enough to bruise.
Forget every uncharitable thought I’d had about children.
We were going to be parents. I was going to be a father, and I was going to see Stella swell with our child. A little boy, perhaps, with curls and brown skin. Or a little girl with her mother’s green eyes and sweet smile.
A fierce protectiveness gripped my chest.
The baby hadn’t even been born, and I already wanted to guard them with my life.
A boy or a girl, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they were ours.
“Does that mean you’re happy?” Stella asked hopefully when we broke apart.
My laugh was rough with emotion. “Of course I’m happy, sweetheart. How could I not be?”
I needed to find the best obstetrician in the country ASAP, plus redo the penthouse (which was currently as non-childproof as it could get), take Stella shopping for maternity clothes, book a babymoon…
“Well, you just called our friends’ children little terrors, so…” Her voice held a teasing note.
“Yes, but that won’t be our child.”
Our child would never do to my hair what Alex’s did to his.
Stella gave me a wry look. “As much as I’d like to believe our baby will be the first baby in the world that doesn’t scream or cry, there’s a chance that won’t happen. I want you to be prepared.”
“I don’t care. They could scream and cry all they want, and they’d still be like their mother.” I brushed her lips with mine. “Perfect.”
A small shudder of pleasure rippled through her body.
“I was right all those years ago,” she murmured. “You, Christian Harper, are a softie at heart.”
I laughed softly. “Only for you, Butterfly.”
I kissed my wife again, and I let her warmth wrap around me while our friends’ laughter drifted over from the living room.
The scene was so cheesy and cozy that the old, pre-Stella me would’ve despised it on principle. But that was the difference between then and now.
Once upon a time, I hadn’t believed in love.