“He’s definitely going to smile this weekend.” Baptiste looked down at his two-month-old son, who was now a sturdy twelve and a half pounds—a nice, solid weight settled in the crook of his arm, as opposed to the fragile don’t kill him! seven-pound newborn he’d once been—and tried to detect signs of this pending milestone. With his honeyed skin, dark curls and solemn green-eyed gaze, Jean-Luc was a striking combination of Baptiste’s eyes and nose and Samira’s lush lips. “I can feel it.”

But the baby merely stared up at him, stubbornly unaware of his father’s high hopes and much more interested in using his mouth to swallow his fat little fist.

Samira, sitting to Baptiste’s right at the round table, clucked with amusement as she straightened Jean-Luc’s bib, which had an image of a black bow tie on it. The baby’s attention shifted to his mother, his expression brightening. But still no smile.

“I’m sure if you explain the situation to him again,” Samira said, “he’ll be happy to start smiling right away.”

Baptiste scowled at her. Actually, the best he could do was pretend to scowl at her on this, the best weekend of his entire life. His glorious bride-to-be wore a shimmery golden dress and a magical smile. And his heart—hell, his entire body—was far too small to contain all the love he felt for her.

“I’ve already told the boy.” Baptiste tickled the baby under the chin. A squirm and a coo, but no smile. “He didn’t smile today at his baptism, but I’ve overlooked that because who feels like smiling when they’re getting water poured on their head? But if he doesn’t smile at the wedding tomorrow, I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive him.”

Samira pulled a concerned face. “Maybe he’s embarrassed that his parents didn’t get married before he was born.”

“If he is, that’s your fault,” Baptiste said with a genuine glower this time. “And I will be sure to tell him so.”

“Well, Samira wasn’t the only one who had reservations about your relationship, was she, Frenchie?” Daniel called loudly from the other side of the table, where he was watching the proceedings with his wife Zoya and an amused gleam in his eyes. “I seem to recall—”

“You recall nothing,” Baptiste said, shooting daggers at him because he knew where this story was going.

“—you freaking out on a bike ride we had shortly after you first met your lovely fiancée.”

Zoya shook her head at Daniel. “Why are you causing problems for this lovely couple on the night before their wedding?”

Daniel shrugged. “It’s what I do. Baptiste had to know that when he invited me.”

They all laughed.

Daniel nudged Sean, who sat on his other side. “You remember this episode, man?”

Sean’s grin widened with mischief. “Perfectly.”

Samira sat up straighter, her ears perked.

“This sounds like an interesting story. I can hardly wait to hear it.”

“It’s nothing,” Baptiste said, ears burning.

“It’s an embarrassing tale for poor Baptiste.” Daniel shook his head and pressed a hand to his heart in a show of sympathy that fooled no one. “And I hate to do this to him, but I did warn him that if he kept talking nonsense about not believing in love, and definitely not believing in love at first sight, I’d have to humiliate him at his wedding reception. So that’s what I’m going to do when I give the toast tomorrow night. Hopefully, he’ll learn that his foolish words have consequences.”

Samira gave Baptiste a narrow-eyed look. “Didn’t believe in love, eh?”

Baptiste waved that off. “Ignore him. He’s drunk.”

They all laughed.

“Actually, I have another story about Baptiste getting emotional when he saw the house for the first time. Maybe I’ll tell that one tomorrow. That should negate the not believing in love story,” Melody said thoughtfully.

“Thank you, Melody,” Baptiste said. “You’ve always been my closest ally.”

More laughter.

Mrs. Smith got up and came around to lean over Baptiste’s shoulder and look at the baby. “This little one might be a late smiler. Baptiste, I recall your grandmother mentioning you didn’t smile until about ten weeks.”

“Slow developer.” Anthony, who had his arm slung around the back of Melody’s chair, raised his brows and blew out a low whistle. “No real surprise there, is it, darling?”

“Be nice,” Melody told him.

“Wasn’t he also the last of our classmates to, ah, pop his little cherry?” Nick pulled a tragic what can you do face as he leaned across Melody to catch Samira’s eye. “We all pray that your innocent son has inherited none of these tendencies. Out of love and respect for you, Samira. Baptiste is, of course, an ass.”

More laughter.

Baptiste took the opportunity to take a deep breath of the balmy early fall air, enjoying the setting’s beauty. It was the perfect place for their rehearsal dinner and the wedding tomorrow. The gazebo, where they would exchange their vows, was draped with red and orange roses and had a perfect view of the river. Matching centerpieces with flickering glass lanterns crowned all the tables. The surrounding trees were strung with white lights, and a dance floor dotted with couples occupied pride of place near the DJ’s table. Everyone he cared about in the world was there, including Daniel’s dad, Nigel, and mother, Ada, and Raymond and his husband Fisher, who were feeding Bobsy bits of lamb chops from their forks.

Overlooking it all from its perch high on the hill? Their home, the fully renovated Howard’s Folly, which was also trimmed with white lights for the occasion.

Mrs. Smith clapped her hands and reached for the baby. “Would you like me to take him inside and check his diaper? Give you a rest for a moment?”

Samira grinned at her. “Once a nanny, always a nanny.”

Baptiste also smiled up at Mrs. Smith. “Thank you, but I’ll change him in a bit,” he said, kissing Jean-Luc’s downy forehead. “And I don’t want to miss his first smile.”

Nick cupped his hands around his mouth. “Stop hogging the baby,” he called to Baptiste. “Why can no one else ever hold him?”

“You’re fighting a losing battle there,” Samira said sadly. “I barely get to hold him myself.”

“You people are all savages. Not you, Samira, obviously.” Baptiste settled the baby more comfortably in his lap and didn’t deign to look at Nick, who lobbed a napkin at him. “I’m not letting you anywhere near my son. Who knows when you last washed your hands? Samira, I think he needs the little blanket. I don’t want him to get cold.”

Samira checked the baby’s hands and cheeks, then shook her head with indulgent amusement.

“This baby is perfectly fine. He needs fresh air just like the rest of us. Stop trying to smother him with blankets.”

Baptiste, who waged a constant battle with overprotectiveness where his wife and son were concerned, wasn’t convinced. He checked the baby’s hands and cheeks for himself—actually, they did seem perfectly warm—and ignored his sniggering friends with dignity.

“You kids ready for your wedding present?” Joe, his arm linked with Rhoda’s, strode over carrying a huge white box with a silver bow. “Now seems like a good time.”

“What’s all this?” Samira asked, bemused, as Joe plunked the box on the table in front of her.

Joe and Rhoda exchanged conspiratorial grins.

“Just a little something to officially welcome Baptiste to the family,” Joe said. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Grinning, Samira untied the bow and lifted the lid.

Out popped the heads of two little greyhound puppies.

Everyone at the table went crazy with surprised delight.

“Now this one here is Fox Mulder,” Joe said, pointing to the gray one. “And the tan one is Archie Bunker.”

“Well, there’s an unholy combination,” Daniel noted wryly.

Samira looked dazed. “Thanks, Mom and Dad. Because the one thing I need with a newborn in the house is not one, but two puppies.”

Baptiste, who’d honestly thought he couldn’t get any happier, spoke up quickly.

“I’ll take care of them. It’ll be fine.”

“What about when we’re in Ibiza on our honeymoon?”

“We’ll take good care of them and the baby, sweetie,” Rhoda said with a reassuring pat to Samira’s arm.

Muttering darkly, Samira exchanged a look with Melody, who rolled her eyes at her.

Baptiste reached out to pet Archie Bunker, who chose that moment to decide that he’d had enough of being cooped up in the box. He leapt out and tumbled over the side of the table, landing in Baptiste’s lap. Without missing a beat, he put his little front paws on Jean-Luc’s belly and, tail wagging frantically, leaned in and licked the side of the baby’s face.

Jean-Luc squirmed, waved his fists and grinned.

Baptiste’s heart stopped. Other than his wife, he’d never seen anything so blindingly beautiful.

“Oh, my God,” Samira cried. “Did you see that? He smiled!”

“Hang on.” Melody leapt to her feet, phone in hand. “Let me catch this for posterity.”

“Use my camera, Melody,” Baptiste said, pointing. “Right there. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Melody had plenty of opportunity to capture the shot; the puppy kept licking and the baby kept smiling.

“Hey!” Nick cried, outraged. “Why does the puppy get to kiss the baby before we do?”

“The puppy doesn’t have your unsavory character, does he?” Anthony said in his dry British accent.

Baptiste, meanwhile, needed a minute. All his overflowing emotion settled in his burning throat, making it hard for him to breathe or speak. Without warning, images of his old life in Paris crowded into his mind: the soulless apartment; the interchangeable women, none of whose names he could now recall; the crushing loneliness.

And he thought about the night he’d met Samira. How easy it would have been to visit the toilet a minute earlier or a minute later, thereby missing the greatest happiness life could have possibly given him.

Instead, his life had been nothing but blessings since the second he ran into her.

Samira seemed to follow his thoughts. She held his gaze across the top of the baby’s and puppy’s heads, her expression glowing with warmth as she watched him compose his features.

That was when the music changed and the opening bass line of “No Ordinary Love” came over the speakers. The sound galvanized him.

And Samira, judging by the way she looked at him.

She took the puppy and put him back into the box.

Baptiste kissed Jean-Luc and passed him to Mrs. Smith.

Then he stood, took Samira’s hand and led her to the dance floor, where he reeled her in.

He rested his lips against her temple, sighing helplessly as he slid his hands down to the small of her back, as low as he dared go with her parents present.

“Have I mentioned what I’d like for my wedding present?” he asked her.

“You have not.”

“I want to take pictures of you on the beach.”

“Okay…?”

“In your white bikini. With sand on your body.”

She laughed. “Is that so?”

“And if your top just happened to fall off…perhaps if I accidentally tugged on the strings too hard…” He shrugged. “I might snap a few pictures of you nude, as well.”

She looked up at him, eyes gleaming and sultry. “Wouldn’t it be so much easier if I just gave you a pair of new cuff links?”

“Easier, but not nearly as sexy.”

“I believe I told you I don’t do nude photos, monsieur.”

“You did. Because you couldn’t have possibly ever done them for anyone but me. But how can you tell your husband no?”

“How, indeed?” she murmured, staring him in the face.

And she just stopped his heart. Every single time.

“I deserve an award,” he said.

She grinned. “For what, monsieur?”

“Not squeezing your ass in public. Not kissing you the way I want to in public.” He shifted closer, subtly thrusting his hips against her sweet spot so she would know how she affected him. “Not taking you home right now so I can fuck you.”

Exaggerated gasp from Samira. “Now is that any way to speak to the mother of your young son?”

“Yes. You need the reminder.”

“Reminder of what?”

“Reminder that we may change diapers and wipe up puppy pee now, but I am still the man who can make you come until you sob, and you are still the woman who steals my breath every time I look at her.”

“I see,” Samira said softly, her eyes bright and her face flushed with sudden color.

“So we will not, in fact, be waiting until our wedding night to be together again.” With a quick glance to make sure her parents were still occupied with the puppies and therefore paying them no attention, he palmed her ass. Squeezed and let go, enjoying the sudden rasp of her breath. “Ça va?”

“Oui, monsieur.” She stared him in the face as she ran her hands through the hair at his nape, making him shiver. “Ça va.”