Nicole

We have epic sex that night.

Obviously.

A man doesn’t just tell a woman he’s wildly in love with her and then not send her soaring to the heavens.

Ryder sends me flying, all right.

I go off the cliff three or four times. Honestly, I lose track of how many orgasms I have, and that’s fine with me. The first time, he puts me on my hands and knees, and it’s to die for.

Next, he bends me over the edge of the bed, biting my ass before he drives into me again. Then, in the middle of the night, I wake up to find his traveling hands all over me, and with my skin sizzling, I beg him to kiss me between my legs.

He heeds the call. And after I scream his name, he moves behind me like we’re spoons, and we do it slow and tender, like the night I knew I’d fallen in love with the father of my child.

But it’s even better because he whispers in my ear as he makes love to me. He tells me he loves me. Tells me he’s crazy for me. Tells me he’ll always take care of me.

And really, that’s better than an orgasm.

But I still have one more.

Like I said, the second trimester rocks.

The next night, we have a ceremony of sorts. We take the baby contract, and we rip it up. At my living room table, we tear it into as many shreds as possible, and we toss it in the trash can.

“I’m all in,” Ryder says.

“You better be.” I tug his shirt, pulling him close to me.

“That’s a promise. In fact,” he says, lacing his fingers through mine, “what do you say we go shopping?”

“Shopping? Now? It’s late.”

He shakes his head then strokes my ring finger. “This weekend. Katherine’s. You got me two key chains. Seems I’m due to get you a ring.”

I shriek.

That weekend, I cry happy tears as I pick out a gorgeous diamond solitaire.

“It looks great with my two key chains.”

“A tadpole, a woman, and a ring,” I say.

He sweeps one hand over my stomach. “Good things come in threes.”

The third trimester, though?

It’s rough going.

I’m bigger, more tired, and a little grumpier.

But I’m also less cranky, since I have help. He helps me walk my dog. When I feel like I can barely bend to feed Ruby anymore, he takes over and gives her kibble. He cooks for me, and he makes sure I don’t just eat jars of artichoke hearts.

Oh, and he handles the entire move to our new apartment.

I don’t need to redo the closet since my mom finds us a new place, suitable for a new family and two medium dogs. Ryder insists I spend the entire moving day at the spa, getting pampered with my best friends.

If this isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

I wear a white dress that billows over the pumpkin inside me one month before I’m due to pop. As Pachelbel’s Canon in D plays, I walk down the aisle at a small church in Manhattan. I’m barefoot and loving it.

Ryder wears a charcoal-gray suit, a pressed white shirt, and a sky-blue tie that I gave him. On the tie is a silver pin in the shape of a papaya. I gave him that, too.

I hold a bouquet of yellow daffodils, and when I reach the groom I’m struck once more by the realization of how lucky I am. This wonderful, witty, handsome man is mine.

We say our vows, and before God, my mom, my brother, Delaney and Tyler, Penny and Gabriel, Ryder’s parents, his sister Claire, his brother Devon and his husband Paul, their daughter Simone, and Ryder’s friend Flynn, I promise to love him for the rest of my life.

He pledges to do the same.

When he slides a platinum band on my finger, the baby kicks.

When I give him his ring, the baby does a little jig, and then I kiss my husband. Later, I throw the bouquet, and Simone catches it.

Her dads look terrified.

“Someday,” I say with a wild grin.

“You’re almost there, Nicole. You can do it.”

Dr. Robinson shouts her encouragement, and I’m sweating, panting, and swearing.

Nineteen hours of labor sucks. She was right. Morning sickness is nothing compared to pushing a watermelon out of your body.

“I can see the head. One more push,” she says, her cheerleader voice ringing in my ears.

Ryder squeezes my hand. “You’re almost there.”

I’m exhausted, and everything hurts, but I want this baby out of me so badly. Machines beep, and nurses encourage me, and Ryder tells me I can do it. I stare at my monster belly, and I imagine that finally, after nine hard, wonderful, amazing months, I will at last get to meet my child.

I bear down and push and push and push until . . .

I hear a wail.

A loud, gorgeous, beautiful cry that fills my heart with joy.

“You did it!”

Tears spill down my cheeks as the doctor announces, “You have a son. And he’s perfect.”

I’m bawling, too, just like my baby boy and my husband. As the doctor hands me my son, I cradle him in my arms for the first time. It is magic and moonlight and all the stars in the sky, and I am flooded with a love that I know is infinite. Tears streak down my husband’s gorgeous face as he plants a sweet daddy kiss on our little boy’s head. “Hi, Papaya.”

I cry and I smile at the same time. “He’s not Papaya anymore.”

“He has a new name.” Ryder’s deep, sexy voice is thick with emotion. We already picked one. He meets my eyes, and then gazes at our baby. “Hey there, Robert Powers Lockhart.”

My father’s and both of ours.