The following Friday evening, Baptiste arrived at Samira’s bungalow after work, his body buzzing with excitement. To be fair, his body always buzzed with excitement at the prospect of being with Samira again, but this time his ear-to-ear grin threatened to split his entire skull in half. The cold air, with its hints of wood smoke and pine needles, fell great against his warm face. He breathed deeply, relishing this feeling of grateful belonging. One of these days, he knew, the thrill of homecoming would probably lessen.

But today wasn’t that day.

His grin widened.

Locking down some of his adrenaline, he stashed his package behind the bushes—he’d sneak it into the house later, when she was in the bathroom or something—used his new key and let himself inside.

Where an unfamiliar scene greeted him.

He shut the door and froze, his smile slowly fading.

A fire crackled and danced, so that was normal. Also normal? Wine breathing on the counter, savory scents coming from the kitchen and Sade’s throaty voice coming from the speakers.

Not normal? There were five open bottles of wine. Bouquets of sunflowers everywhere. Flickering candles all over the mantel and coffee table. A giant bunch of navy balloons tied to the back of the chair at the head of the dining room table, which was set for—he did a quick count—nine people.

And—his heart turned over hard—a large round cake, dotted with candles, sitting on a glass stand on the counter.

He stopped dead, too astonished to make it any farther.

“Now, don’t be mad.” Samira, looking worried, hurried over from the kitchen, her white apron tied around her waist. She wore a sexy black dress that dipped into a V in front (not normal, but he’d happily take it) and a huge red rose tucked behind her ear. “I wasn’t sure if you liked surprises or not. Looks like I was right.”

He blinked and made good progress toward activating his voice, at least until he saw what was sitting on the sideboard.

He cleared his throat and pointed, desperately trying not to get choked up. What kind of fool dissolved into tears because someone remembered their birthday?

“Are those gift bags for guests?”

“Yes.”

“Are we having a party?”

“I’m throwing a dinner party, yes. My parents are coming. Also Daniel, Zoya, Sean and a mystery guest. Oh, and Melody may stop by later.”

He swallowed in a vain attempt to overcome the growing lump in his throat. “Why?”

“Oh, so you’ve forgotten that it’s your birthday.” She tried to look severe. “That would certainly explain a great deal, wouldn’t it?”

“How did you know it’s my birthday?” he asked, feeling incredibly slow and dull-witted. Oh, and were those presents behind the gift bag? For him?

“I looked you up at work. You should be familiar with that form of research, since you used it on me to get my phone number. Did you think I’d continue sleeping with a man without knowing his sign? Luckily for you, you Scorpios get good marks in the romance department. So I’m going to keep you around for a while yet. Evidently you’re loyal and faithful.”

Well, she had that right. Whether she knew it or not, he’d planted himself into her life for the long haul. As far as he was concerned? Nothing short of a surgical excision would get him out now.

She eyed him closely, vague worry lines marring her forehead. “Did I mess up? You wanted the red balloons instead?”

He tried to laugh.

It turned into something that sounded suspiciously like a sob before he bit it back.

Samira, being Samira, didn’t reach for the phone and call the authorities to come and escort him to a place where he’d be no danger to himself or others. Instead, she gently kissed his cheek, wiped a wayward tear off his face and slipped into his arms. Right where he needed her to be.

“I’m not sure what kind of birthdays you’ve had in the past,” she said, kissing his cheek again, “but here in Journey’s End, birthdays are a big freaking deal.”

In the past?

Well, let’s think.

There’d been the many birthdays observed only by the housekeeper or nanny of the day and the chef, who baked the cake, because his parents were wintering or vacationing or whatever the fuck they did somewhere else.

The birthdays when his mother sent him a check (although the five thousand Euros and BMW coupe when he turned sixteen had, admittedly, been very sweet).

And, of course, the birthdays when no one remembered.

Which was why, in his twenties, he’d made a point of drinking and partying his way through the week of his birthday, just to bury the memories. Because, really, who cared that a billionaire felt sorry for himself because his birthday had never been properly observed?

Self-pity. Not a good look.

The birthdays were never the issue, of course. Merely a stark reflection of the real problem, which was that his parents had never given two shits about him. Nor had most worthwhile people (the crew he’d run with in his twenties had never qualitied as worthwhile) who weren’t on his family’s payroll.

But now?

Now he was thirty-six, and he’d met a woman with brains, humor, integrity and a spirit more beautiful on the inside than it was on the outside. And that was saying the near unimaginable.

Now he had Samira in his arms, a homemade cake on the table and a brighter future than he’d ever thought possible.

And it all seemed far too good to be true for the undeserving likes of him.

Which was why he contracted his arms and held her even tighter.

Was he good enough for her? No. Not with his dismal family history and debauched early adulthood. Not compared to her lovely family. Did he entertain any hope of becoming good enough anytime soon? Not the slightest. If he lived a hundred years? Possibly then.

But he would try. For this woman who was thoughtful and insightful enough to give him what he needed even when he hadn’t thought to ask for it? He would happily spend his life trying.

Still...

They weren’t there yet, he and Samira.

She hadn’t given herself permission to fall in love with him. She had one foot out the metaphorical door and her car keys in hand at all times, just waiting to take off if and when she decided things between them could never work. A prudent stance for a smart woman, and Samira was nothing if not smart.

So he had to be patient. He knew that. Tried to make his peace with it.

Easy enough to do when he was determined to stick around until she was all-in.

Like he was.

She pulled back to look up at him with that all-encompassing gaze of hers. “You okay? I wasn’t sure what else to do for a man who has everything.”

Okay?

“I’m perfect.”

She nodded very seriously. “I’m glad I didn’t get the piñata I had my eye on. That would have put you over the edge for sure.”

The tension broken, they laughed together for one exquisite moment. Until the day’s emotion overtook him and he lost his head. Surely she didn’t expect him to keep this to himself any longer.

“I’m in love with you.”

Samira froze, her face flooding with color.

“I just...” The words soared out of his mouth, powered by the euphoria of releasing himself from his vow of silence. “I know I’m not the kind of guy you see yourself ending up with. I know it’s way too soon and you probably don’t believe me. But I can’t keep pretending it’s not there when you have to know my heart stops every time I look at you.”

“Baptiste...”

“No.” He didn’t want to be shushed or diverted. Didn’t want to lock his feelings back in that dark trunk. Didn’t want to see the emotional wall now casting her face in shadow. “You’re not going to talk me out of feeling what I feel. I know what this is. I’m crazy in love with you.”

His story told, there was nothing to do but watch as she blinked and tried to control the spark of panic in her eyes...as she took a fortifying breath...as she smiled the beginnings of a kindly smile, the type that was always a precursor to a letdown of one sort or another.

“Don’t,” he said sharply, letting her go as his joy evaporated and a good chunk of his hopes and dreams shattered on the floor. He was, clearly, a fucking idiot. He should have kept his mouth shut and had more patience. This was what happened when you were ruled by your heart rather than your brain.

Her face fell. “I have to explain, Baptiste—”

“No, you don’t.” His bruised ego couldn’t take any explanations at the moment. “I already know. It’s too soon. We’re getting to know each other. We have to see how things go. Correct?”

She blinked.

“Well...yeah,” she said, frowning. “But you don’t have to make it sound like I’m an asshole for being cautious.”

“No, no.” He reeled her in so he could press a lingering kiss to her forehead and hopefully de-escalate the situation before it ruined her dinner party. “I don’t think you’re an asshole. You’re one of the smartest people I know. But sometimes? Being too smart is a bad thing.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because you think too much. And all of this?” He gestured at her scowling face. “And this?” He tapped her temple. “You’re doing it to yourself. I don’t have any doubts about the two of us together. And one day, a long time from now, you will look around and say, ‘he came into my life and it was all very unexpected, but we’ve been very happy together. This whole time. I wonder why I wasted so much time being afraid.’”

She seemed a little shaken. “I thought international players, such as yourself, didn’t believe in love.”

His ears burned. “I don’t like the term ‘international players.’”

“I’ll bet you don’t,” she said sourly.

“But one of the many things about international players is that they spend so much time with the wrong women that it takes them awhile to find the right woman. But they’re smart enough to know her when they finally see her. Because she’s not like anyone else.”

He stared her in the face, happy to meet her questioning gaze dead on.

Until, once again, the moment’s emotional weight threatened to overwhelm him. Since he didn’t want to make any more startling outbursts tonight—let’s get married! kept popping into his mind—he decided it was time to lighten the mood.

“So,” he said, pointing to the kitchen, “as the birthday boy, I feel I should be allowed to sample just a small plate of food before the guests arrive. To make sure the quality is what it should be.”

“The birthday boy will find himself eating a peanut butter and jelly rather than beef brisket and macaroni and cheese if he keeps running his mouth,” she said, laughing. “So you might want to rethink.”

The threat sent a chill down his spine.

“I repent and recognize the error of my ways.”

“I thought you might. Now are you ready for your surprise?”

His jaw dropped.

“What the hell was this?” he asked, gesturing at the entire scene.

Pivoting away with a merry laugh, she hurried down the hall, knocked on her bedroom door—was someone here? —opened it and peeked inside.

“Come on out, birthday surprise!”

To his utter astonishment, out walked a tall older woman with a brisk step that made something chime in the back of his mind. It couldn’t be, he thought, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes to watch her come closer, but she had the sleek auburn bob...the ruthlessly crisp white shirt and black slacks...the bright blue eyes and rosy-cheeked pale skin...

The clincher? The wide smile, as warm and engaging as it had been decades ago.

His heart exploded in his chest, making it pretty damn difficult for him to talk.

Still, he gave it a shot.

“Mrs. Smith?”

His voice sounded boyish. Tearful. He didn’t care and couldn’t help it anyway.

“Jean-Baptiste.” She clapped her hands, then held her arms wide. “Didn’t you grow up to be a handsome devil?”

He hurried the last few feet, laughing out a sob, or maybe sobbing out a laugh. And then they came together in a Chanel No. 5-scented hug, and he had to hide his tear-twisted face in Mrs. Smith’s shoulder for a minute or two because he didn’t want Samira to see him crying like a baby.

“It’s okay, Jean-Baptiste,” Mrs. Smith said, smoothing his hair as they swayed together. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay.

He’d thought that grown men shouldn’t cry. Thought that he was over her sudden disappearance from his life back when he was a kid. Thought he’d gotten over the way his mother betrayed him by firing Mrs. Smith, the only real mother figure he’d ever had. Thought he’d whittled his loneliness and yearning for her down to manageable chunks.

Thought he’d gotten his blown mind around what a spectacular woman Samira was.

But for her to do this? For him?

“I think he likes his present, Mrs. Smith,” Samira said. “What about you?”

They all laughed. Baptiste raised his head, mopped his eyes with the tissue Samira thoughtfully slipped into his hand, backed up to arm’s length and grinned into Mrs. Smith’s face the way he had as a little boy, when they laughed together during the Roseanne episode where Dan drank the sour milk.

“What are you doing here?” he cried.

“Samira tracked me down through social media.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Boston. So I just rode the train down.”

“Can you stay for long?”

“Not this time, but I’ll come back again so we can really catch up. I’m actually on my way to visit my new grandbaby in DC. Samira happened to catch me at the exact right moment.”

He glanced over at Samira, intending to thank her, but his heart was lodged right in his throat and he didn’t trust himself to say anything right now. Not when she beamed at him like that, almost as though she loved him back even if she wasn’t ready to say it yet, and her big brown eyes shone with her own tears.

“Samira is an amazing person,” he said to Mrs. Smith instead. “As I’m sure you’ve discovered.”

“Oh, I’ve discovered.” Mrs. Smith held his face between her soft hands the way she used to do back when he was little, her smile fading. “Jean-Baptiste…”

He knew what was coming. Didn’t need to hear it.

“It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I understand.”

But she just shook her head and tried to blink back her tears.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice sounded choked. “I never would have left you like that if I’d had a choice.”

“I know.”

“But your mother felt it was best to make a clean break when you went to Capri that summer and I went home to visit my family.”

Good old Mrs. Smith, he thought with equal parts affection and exasperation.

Always determined to put the best face on things. Always determined—even now! —to protect him from his parents’ never-ending shortcomings, whether they’d traipsed off to Gstaad and forgotten his bedtime call for the tenth night in a row, or fired his beloved nanny because his mother realized, as everyone else already did, that Mrs. Smith was the closest thing Baptiste had to a real mother. That was the thing about dear old Maman, wasn’t it? She’d never wanted him, but she damn sure didn’t want him to have another mother.

But Mrs. Smith rose above all that, didn’t she?

No matter whatever else happened, Mrs. Smith would never badmouth his parents.

Which, he supposed, made her as fine a person as Samira.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Smith,” he told her. “I know exactly what happened—”

There was a knock on the door.

“Oh, no.” Samira, who’d been hovering on the periphery, checked her watch and made a face as she disappeared into the foyer. “That’ll be my parents. They show up early for everything. And they’re dying to give you your present, Baptiste, so you’d better brace yourself.”

“I’m braced.” Baptiste let Mrs. Smith go with a final peck to her cheek and turned to the front door. “I cannot wait to see what else happens tonight.”

“You say that now...” Samira said darkly, swinging the door open.

“Hi, honey!” Rhoda’s cheerful voice rang through the air. “Don’t you look pretty? Give us a kiss.”

“Hi, Mom! Here, let me take your coat—Dad, will you kindly put that thing down before you take someone’s head off?”

“Well, watch where you stick your head.” Joe appeared from the hallway, jacket still on and woolly cap pulled low over his forehead as he beamed at them all in turn and boomed out his greeting. “Hello, everyone! Where’s the birthday boy? This is for you, J.B.! Happy Birthday to you, son!”

And he thrust a fishing pole tied with a giant blue bow into Baptiste’s hands.

Baptiste stared down at it in utter disbelief, his brain working overtime to make sense of the turns in his life since he arrived in Journey’s End.

In the past? He’d been gifted checks for his birthday. Club-hopped. Been the honoree at decadent parties hosted by his trashy friends. Hell, one time he’d even received a Rolex from a girlfriend who’d used his credit card to purchase it.

But this?

A quiet dinner party with friends. A homemade cake. Balloons. Mrs. Smith. Samira.

And now a fishing pole, too?

He experienced another of those embarrassing choked-up moments that could devolve into either laughter or tears. Luckily, laughter won this time.

“I certainly hope this is a better pole than the defective one you let me borrow the other week.”

Joe made a face. “Defective?”

“Well, it only caught one fish, didn’t it? Surely you don’t blame me for that,” Baptiste deadpanned.

They all roared with laughter.

“This is the best birthday of my life,” Baptiste said as he leaned in to hug Joe.

“Did you mean it?” Samira asked later, after the candles had burned low, the guests had gone and they had a minute to catch their breath. Heaving a sigh of unmistakable satisfaction, she sank onto the sofa, kicked off her heels and put her feet up on the coffee table. Their bellies were full of barbecued beef brisket, macaroni and cheese, roasted Brussels sprouts and red velvet cake (a revelation) and, much to his surprise, the kitchen was once again spotless thanks to the many hands make light work attitudes of Rhoda, Zoya and Sean, who had helped Samira with the cleanup. After a childhood spent watching the live-in housekeeper and other staff shuttle dirty dishes into the kitchen for unseen hands to wash them, Baptiste was now Head Dishwasher on the nights Samira cooked, a role he’d begun to embrace, but as the birthday boy, he’d been given the night off. “That this was the best birthday of your life?”

He’d been helping himself to a second slab of cake, but now he set it on the side table and licked the icing off his thumb.

“You know I meant it,” he said quietly.

She beamed up at him, sunshine in a black dress. “And what was your favorite part?”

“Every second was my favorite part. But my absolute favorite part was that you did something so thoughtful for me. I can’t even begin to…”

He trailed off and shook his head, his full-to-bursting heart once again making it difficult for him to speak.

“I’m sorry you didn’t have better birthdays growing up,” she said, sobering. “Every little kid deserves that. My parents did everything but throw me a parade when I was little. Because they adopted me late in life. They made me feel like a princess for a day every year. One time we even had a full afternoon tea in the garden with all my friends in frilly dresses.”

The image made him grin away his lingering emotion.

“I’d like to see those pictures.”

“I’m sure my parents would be only too happy to show them to you.” She looked troubled. “So you were never going to say anything about your birthday?”

Ah. That reminded him.

“No. I was going to observe the tradition of giving gifts rather than receiving them.”

He hurried toward the front door.

“Where’re you—?” she called after him.

“One second.”

He retrieved his brightly wrapped and beribboned package from behind the bushes, came right back and set it on the coffee table, a wave of anticipatory nerves making his cheeks hot.

“For you. I hope you like it.”

She swung her feet down, looking startled but delighted. “This is for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you! I love it!”

“Don’t you want to see what it is first?” he asked, laughing.

“As long as it isn’t, say, a toaster oven, I’m sure I’ll love it.” She paused to think before going to work on the wrapping. “Actually, I’d love a toaster oven, too. I’ve seen a couple of recipes—oh, it’s heavy.”

Baptiste, now feeling downright nervous, sat on the edge of the sofa and watched her. “I hope you like it. We can exchange it, of course, if you don’t like it. And I wasn’t sure about the—”

“Oh, my God.” She pressed a hand to her heart. It was a Louis Vuitton red leather rolling carry-on bag, but she gasped and gaped as though he’d presented her with a car. Which made him wonder what she’d do when he replaced her existing car, which had to be at least seven years old, with a new one, as he planned to do in the near future. “It’s gorgeous. This is for me?”

“Oui, ma reine,” he said quietly, not trusting himself to say what was on the tip of his tongue. Namely that he wanted to give her the world, because that was what she’d given him. “It’s for you.”

“It’s beautiful. I love it. Thank you.” Some of the brilliance faded from her smile as she cocked her head and studied him more closely. “But are you sending me away somewhere?”

“Just a little weekend trip.”

“What? Where are we—?”

“Shhh.” He set aside the suitcase, box and wrapping paper, then reached for the cake. “All in good time. Right now? It’s time for something I’ve wanted to do all night.”

The new huskiness in his voice seemed to give him away.

She went very still and watched him with glittering eyes.

“Oh? And what’s that, monsieur?”

He reached for his cake. Smudged some of the icing onto his thumb and sucked it into his mouth, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

Her breath stuttered.

“This is special frosting, did you say?” he asked conversationally, dipping his thumb again.

“Ah, yes. It’s called, ah, Ermine frosting.” She cleared her throat, her avid gaze tracking his movements. “You boil the milk.”

“It’s one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted.” He paused for effect. “And I want to see how well it goes with the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Color rose over her face as her lids slipped to half-mast.

It took her a long time to speak.

“I see. And it is your birthday. So I have to do whatever you want.”

“Indeed. So I’m going to need your panties.”

Thrilling half-smile from Samira.

She stood. Stared him in the eye as she smoothed her clingy dress over her thighs. Bent to reach under the hem, treating him to a generous display of cleavage as she did. He let out a long and serrated breath that intensified when she turned her back on him and slid the dress up her thighs to reveal the flexing globes of her tight ass. Much shimmying and wriggling followed, at the end of which—he had no idea how she managed it—she pulled the dress back into place, turned to face him and presented him with the scrap of blue lace without ever showing him a glimpse of her pussy.

She handed the panties over, one brow raised and her eyes bright with defiance.

He glowered at her. Adjusted himself before his zipper made him a eunuch.

“On second thought,” he said, pressing the panties to his nose, breathing deeply and savoring the clean scent of her musk before putting them into his pocket, “you should probably get rid of everything.”

“Everything?” she asked sweetly.

“Everything.”

She shrugged. “If you insist.”

“Oh, I insist,” he said huskily.

Planting her legs wide, like Beyoncé striking a pose on stage, she took all the time in the world to lift her dress, sweep it over her head and drop it to the floor. She gave him a second or two to appreciate the sheer lace of her bra (ridiculous as a garment, but absolutely brilliant as a way to drive men insane) before she reached back to unhook it and tossed it aside.

“Come here,” he said, opening his arms to her with tremendous satisfaction.

She straddled him with a throaty laugh, settling with her thighs on either side of him. Wasting no time, he smeared the icing across her dewy lips and licked his way deep into her mouth. Sweet heaven tinged with vanilla. She surged into the kiss, making that helpless cooing sound that made his heart stop and his queue swell every time he heard it.

“Baptiste,” she whispered urgently when he broke away.

He tightened his grip on her hip to keep her in place, then reached out his other hand to swirl his first two fingers in the icing.

“I know where I want to kiss you,” he said, gliding his fingers through the slick cleft between her thighs, making her cry out and her skin leap, “but since I’ve had a great birthday and I’m in a generous mood, I’m happy to also kiss you wherever you’d like to be kissed.”

Breathless and shaky laugh from Samira.

“Well, let’s see,” she said thoughtfully, scooping up a big blob of icing.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

Taking advantage of her captive and enthralled audience, she smeared the white icing on the side of her long mahogany neck. Let her eyes roll closed and her head fall back as she smeared it across the front of her neck, between her full breasts and down to her quivering belly. Trailed her fingers back up and dotted each jutting nipple.

And then, just when he couldn’t take the anticipation for one more second, she rubbed the last little bit of icing across his bottom lip, leaned in and nipped him with her sharp little teeth before eagerly opening her mouth for him.

He made a choked sound of impatience and let the animal inside him run free. Never before had his mood shifted so quickly or his need been so great.

The more desperate he became to own her, the more she owned him.

He’d told her he loved her tonight.

The idea that she might not love him back—might be incapable of loving a man like him—sparked a frenzy inside him. A terror. A bottomless need.

“Samira,” he said, breaking the kiss.

They stared at each other for one startled moment.

He saw how her gaze roved his face and realized that she had questions and uncertainty about this thing between them. Much as he wanted to reassure her, he was drowning in his own questions.

What would it take for this woman to love him the way he loved her? He wasn’t worthy now, of course, having spent his whole life being unlovable and unworthy, but what if he changed? Would she consider the possibility of loving him one day if he promised to change?

There were no answers, but her expression eased, just a little, and some of the tightness in his chest loosened. But he couldn’t take it slow. Not tonight.

With a low growl, he rose up enough to tumble her off his lap and onto her back. It only took him a second to unbuckle his belt and unzip. Then he grabbed her hips and yanked her closer, right where he needed her to be as he levered over her.

“Oh, God,” she said.

And she surrounded him with those silky arms and legs as he lowered his head and licked her neck. Her breasts, sweeping away the white icing to reveal her pointed dark nipples beneath. And her sweet, sweet pussy, savoring the feeling of her plump thighs on either side of his head, engulfing him, as he ran his mouth all over her swollen flesh.

Then he focused in and swirled his tongue around her clit—just the way she liked.

It didn’t take her long to stiffen. To arch against him, her back bowing away from the sofa. To cry out a single high note of surprised ecstasy.

He lived for that sound.

He also lived for this.

Glassy-eyed and limp, with a woman’s sensual smile curling the edges of her lips, she sat up. Pushed him back, so that his head was on the sofa’s arm, but his feet were on the floor. Nimbly dropped to her knees between his legs, pulled down the front of his boxers, trailed two fingers in the icing and, giving him a pointed look—oh, yes, she had his rapt attention—showed him her glistening pink tongue before she sucked those fingers deep into her mouth.

His breath stopped.

Her smile grew.

She reached for the plate again, producing a smaller blob of icing that—merde! —only covered the engorged head of his dick. Then she ran her fingers up and down his length, pouting prettily.

“Look at all this,” she said, wicked amusement lighting her eyes as she lowered her head and stroked him up and down with an appreciative coo. “I think I’m going to need a lot more icing.”

“Fuck,” he said, his hips spasming as she put her mouth on him.

When he woke sometime later, he was stretched out on his back, his clothes in disarray, with Samira on top of him. Their legs were twined. Her head rested on his chest.

He was still inside her.

Much as he wanted to spend the rest of his life like this, he wanted to surprise her more. So he ran his fingers up her spine and kissed the top of her head.

“Hmmm?” she murmured drowsily.

“Wake up. We’re going away for the weekend, remember?”

“Oh,” she said, blinking and propping herself up on her arms. “Are we driving down to the city?”

Baptiste did his best to stifle his grin.

“Something like that.”