I hadn’t seen her in seven wretched weeks.

The longest seven weeks of my life.

Four sodding weeks of state visits in Cameroon, Johannesburg, Sydney, and Vancouver, with three weeks in Auckland in the middle for prepping the Olympic Stadium. Seven sodding weeks shaking hands, smiling politely, attempting not to explode at the outrageous requests of the Olympic committee. Seven sodding weeks of miserable hotels and empty beds. Thank fucking god they were over—after one week I vowed never to travel without Lydia again. Seven had been a bizarre form of torture.

We easily could have just met the next morning back in London—that had been the plan. It would have been the sane thing to do, wouldn’t it? Wait one more day and reunite at home, where we could hide away for hours, days, with no interruptions? But this godforsaken soiree had come up in Paris. It couldn’t be avoided, and I couldn’t stand the idea of delaying seeing her one more day. And neither could she. So instead of marching through our front door and taking her right to bed, I was going to see her for the first time in a room full of people. She’d flown down that morning, and I hoped she’d gotten her fill of the town, because I wasn’t going to let her leave our hotel room once I got her there.

She’d seemed radiant over FaceTime the previous evening, and I needed that radiance in front of me, under me, as soon as fucking possible. I had landed only forty minutes earlier, and I was already in a car headed to the party. Roger had finally proposed to that French woman he shared the Hampstead flat with, and it was an engagement party. I might have skipped the whole thing altogether had he not generously donated over two hundred thousand quid to the suicide prevention charity I’d started in Grace’s name. He was a good bloke, and she was inoffensive, a model or something. Her name was Manon, I believed. I hoped. I quickly sent Thomas a text to confirm. Then texted him again to make sure he’d remembered to upgrade our suite at Le Bristol and have Lydia’s bags moved.

Then I texted Lydia once more.

Huh. That was awfully tame of her. Unusually tame. Maybe she was in the middle of a conversation with someone. I contemplated pushing her further but settled for straightening my bow tie. I’d hurriedly changed into my tux on the plane, but was only now making sure the buttons were lined up properly.

We’d managed to speak on the phone every day at first, but with the shifting time differences, my constant hotel hopping, and her busy schedule with the store and the successful launching of Fiona’s business, it had become impractical, so within a week we’d had to settle for daily texting and a video call a couple of times a week. But even then we couldn’t manage to line up our schedules. She seemed to be going to bed earlier in my absence—I’d be coming home from an event and would end up waking the poor girl up. I missed her like I was a heroin addict going through withdrawal, and it was even worse now that she was so close. I was minutes away from having those lethal little lips against mine, and fuck, this hard-on was going to be a problem. Who knew having a wife was such a social hazard?

The car pulled into the drive of the stylish bohemian loft space in the Marais, and I bolted from the car. The poor doorman didn’t stand a chance—I flung the door open myself before the poor chap had his hand on the handle. I’d have to tip him later for his embarrassment.

On entering the posh space, all high ceilings, lit with small lights and candles, I scanned feverishly for her. Where were those brown eyes?

There.

A floor-length dark green wrap dress with billowing sleeves and a deep V in the front that made her breasts look fucking fabulous. Christ, they were perfect. More perfect than my memory and video chat had allowed them to be. Her hair was in some kind of low side thing, her bangs trimmed—she looked soft, sweet, elegant, and I couldn’t wait to ravage her, make her dirty. Make her mine again.

She was chatting politely with an older gentleman—Roger’s father, perhaps? I wasn’t willing to take my eyes off of her long enough to figure it out. She looked like she had a goddamn halo around her, backlit with those bloody candles. This was why we met here, so I could hold on to this vision for the rest of my fucking life and feed off it. Conjure it when I was having a wank, drown in it when I missed her.

She was wearing the earrings I’d bought her on Portobello—that day seared into my mind the way this one would be. I couldn’t believe that moment—she’d brought me to my knees then, and now I was hers completely. The woman had destroyed me.

I was closer. She still hadn’t seen me, and she looked so uncharacteristically calm, so womanly.

She saw me as I approached but didn’t run to me, didn’t meet me halfway. Her smile was knowing, welcoming, steady, exactly what I needed. I enveloped her completely in my arms, and sealed my lips against her neck, inhaling her.

“Baby. Lydia,” I whispered into her ear, pulling her even tighter against my chest. I wasn’t letting this girl out of my sight for at least a decade. Fuck state visits. I was never again doing one without her. Ever.

“Dylan,” she replied, tucking her head under my chin, nuzzling into me. She looked up to me, grabbed my face, and pulled my lips down to meet hers. “I wish we were alone,” she added.

“Why did we decide to meet here again?” I asked her, stroking her face with my hands, wanting to touch all of her.

“So we wouldn’t have to wait another minute.”

Just then a waiter approached, offering us Champagne, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that both Roger and his father were still standing right there. Roger had the nerve to clear his throat—I wanted to punch the bastard. If I wanted to maul my wife whom I hadn’t seen in nearly two months, I didn’t care if I was in a church, I’d maul.

“Excuse me,” I said to the gentlemen, “I haven’t seen my lovely wife in weeks.” I took two glasses of Champagne from the tray and offered one to Lydia. She took the glass, but didn’t raise it to her lips. “Come on, baby. Toast with me. We’re back.”

“Might I have a water with gas please?” she asked the waiter. I smiled at the way she was starting to adopt the English terms for things.

“On some kind of health kick, damsel?” I whispered to her as Roger and his father took their drinks. “Am I going to have start all over with you? Reintroduce you to hedonism?” I looked at her, searching for the giggle I knew would come. “I wouldn’t mind, you know. We’d start with the pretense that this was all going to be just sex.” I smirked and wrapped my arm around her waist, pulling her even closer. She kissed me and smiled again. That goddamn smile.

“Where have you been, Hale?” Roger asked, slapping me on the back. “Travelling the world without this lovely creature? Don’t you think that’s rather cruel?” His loud voice pissed me off. Nosy bugger.

“You have no idea—cruel for me,” I said. “Where’s the blushing bride, Rog?” I asked on autopilot. I wanted to be with Lydia, alone. I wasn’t even sure what he said but I know I replied, and I must have said something to exit us from the conversation, because the two interlopers were now walking away. I only hoped I hadn’t been rude. All of my attention was on the woman in my arms.

“Baby?” I pulled her even tighter to me and looked down between us. Was it just me, or…“Fuck me, Lydia, are you wearing a push-up bra or something?” I asked, surreptitiously stroking the edge of her breast with my thumb, my palm wrapped clear around her back to the other side. Her being so tiny had its advantages.

She shook her head, and when I looked in her eyes I saw apprehension. Wondering. Pleading.

Wait.

I looked at her Champagne glass—she still hadn’t touched it. Her breasts were definitely bigger. I felt the blood drain from my face. Was she fucking with me?

“Lydia?” I whispered, looking right into those gorgeous brown eyes, willing them to tell me what I was now eighty-five percent sure she was telling me. I moved my hands to her hips and stepped back to get a better look at my girl.

“I’m—”

“Pregnant. You’re pregnant.” I could hear my own words, and they sounded as though I was meeting Elvis or the president of the United States, mystified, questioning, not believing that this unbelievable thing before my eyes could be reality.

“Pregnant,” she said, and now it was her turn to look at me imploringly. Oh god, she was nervous. This beautiful woman—my wife—was pregnant with our child and uncertain about me, how I felt. I rushed in and pulled her into me. I wrapped myself completely around her. I felt the world fall away—this was happening. It was happening with her, and I’d never have been able to anticipate the joy that was pulsing through my limbs. The utter satisfaction.

“Nothing. Nothing in the world has ever been more beautiful to me than this,” I said directly into her ear. One hand holding her head against my shoulder, the other wrapped around her perfect waist. I could feel her chest rise and fall in quicker succession. She was crying.

I took a swig of my Champagne and then deposited our glasses (mine empty, hers full) on the tray of a passing waiter. Then I quickly moved Lydia to the edge of the room, pulled her face into my hands, and laid a kiss on her lips that I hoped would convey everything that needed to be said. I stroked her cheeks, her neck, her shoulders with my palms as I sank my lips into hers.

“Really?” she asked, those big brown eyes looking at me with relief and hope. “I wasn’t sure. We never got a chance to talk about it again before you left, and then I found out, and I didn’t know—”

“Shhh, baby. Really.” And urged her back against me. And then I realized I still didn’t know how she felt. “Baby, do you…I thought you weren’t ready…” I couldn’t finish the sentence, but I didn’t need to. Lydia was nodding, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“I am. I knew I was before you left, and I figured we’d talk about kids when you got back.” She laughed a little, looked down at her belly and shrugged her shoulders. “But it’s a little late for that.” She smiled the most calm, beautiful smile I’d ever seen on her.

“Baby,” I said again, holding her against me. I smiled back at her, suddenly realizing that that term of endearment was also a statement of fact. “How long have you known?” I pulled away again so I could see her face.

“I found out the day after you left. I think I missed some pills when I was in New York—I was so distracted, and the timing makes sense.”

I wasn’t surprised often, but somehow I was almost more surprised by this than the fact that she was pregnant. “The whole time? You knew the whole time I was gone? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to tell you in person. It was never a good moment on the phone, and I just wanted to be in the same room as you when we finally talked about it, and I—”

“Shhh,” I said into her ear as I rocked her subtly against me, “let me take you out of here.”

“But—”

“Fuck the lot of them, the sorry bunch of wankers.” I gestured towards the room, and she laughed through her tears. “I haven’t seen you in seven weeks, and you just told me I’m going to be a father. You’ve made me the happiest man alive, Lydia. And you’ve had to think about this all alone, and now I’m here I want it all. I want to inspect every millimeter of your body. I want to catch up on every ounce of you. I want you tell me everything about when you found out. Everything.”

“Thank god,” she said, laughing and wiping away her tears. “I’m so happy too. And I might have had to consider having a major blowout fight with you had you suggested we stay at this party. And since I haven’t seen you in almost two months, and I’m so goddamn horny…” She slipped her hands underneath my jacket and held me tighter. I laughed—she tells me she’s pregnant, and all she can think about is sex. I knew I’d married her for a reason.

“No rows. Only us, damsel.” I could feel her smile against my lapels, and I placed my hand against her stomach. “Only us.”