I knew he would. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.” I mean that. “Next time I send you a sex SOS, I’ll be sure to clarify.”
He laughs. “A sex SOS?”
“That’s what this was. Withmymom staying with us andyourmom and Saffie two doors down in the guest condo for the last two weeks, we haven’t had a second alone.”
“Don’t remind me.” He slides his palm over my breast to my back and down until he’s cupping my bottom again. He’s got a thing for my ass. I don’t mind it.
“So, I sent you a sex SOS.”
“Well, I’m glad you did.”
“You aren’t upset that I broke the time-honored tradition of not seeing the bride before the ceremony?”
“A little,” he admits. “But since we haven’t done anything traditional from the beginning, it’s fitting that we do our own thing today.”
He’s right. We met two years ago, to the day, on a video phone call. We spent the first few months of our relationship as friends. Then he came to visit me when I needed him most, and that’s when he let me know he liked me. You know,liked me, liked me. After that, it was a long-distance thing with him in London and me here in Iowa.
During that time, Cooke suffered a career-ending leg injury while playing his beloved rugby, we broke up and got back together, and let’s not forget the murder. While all that was going on, our friends have been in and out of relationships, some with each other, and, well, we had a baby two months ago. A beautiful little girl we named Harper. Harper Mae Thompson—Mae after my grandmother. Harper’s the love of our lives. Sure, we love each other, but combined, there’s no baby who is adored more than ours. I swear.
Sure. I know that’s what every parent says. And that’s just fine.
We didn’t mean to get pregnant, but we weren’t trying very hard to prevent it either. I mean, I was finishing up school, and Cooke was done playing rugby. Now he’s got a job as a commentator for a British sports network now. They pay him a ridiculous amount of money. I mean it. It’s ridiculous. Not only that, but he’s got more endorsements now than he did when he played. He’s still sexy-hot—trust me—and in demand. And now, after his most recent sports magazine cover came out, he’s getting calls left and right for more.
It’s no wonder. He was photographed holding Harper.
Don’t worry, we made sure the photos didn’t show her face. Shirtless—because of course he was—Cooke held her in his big arms with her head tucked into his neck and shoulder as he looked down at her adoringly. It wasn’t even a staged shot. They were switching out a light or something when he took her from my arms and did what he always does when she’s in his arms: he snuggled her in close, smelled her hair—because babies smell amazing—and gazed down at her like she was the best thing since sliced bread.
He’s right.She is.
Anyhoo, they took a photo of that little moment, andbam. The magazine said that sales by female consumers quadrupled just from that cover. I get it. There’s nothing sexier than a man and his baby. Robbi said they’re called DILFs, and I have no reason to argue with her.
“Are you ready for this?” he asks softly.
I look up at him and smile. “I’m so ready. You?”
“I’ve been waiting for this day for two years.”
“Nuh-uh.” I shake my head. “No way.”
“Yes. It’s true, love. I knew the second you popped up on that screen with your hair all over the place and your glasses askew.”
That makes me smile. “Askew.” I love that word now. Still…. “I looked terrible.”
“I thought you were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.”
Me too. I thoughthewas pretty. Heck, I ran downstairs the next morning and blabbed to Patsy about the English hotty who called me on FaceChat. “Well, I don’t know about all that, but I do believe it was fate.”
“It was indeed.”
“Which reminds me. Did Maxwell make it?” His “mate” Maxwell Quinn, the reason for the wrong number that night, has become a fixture in Cooke’s life. Though not necessarily a good one because he’s a tad annoying.
“He’s here,” Cooke says, sounding a bit like Eeyore. “I should have left him off the guest list.”
“Why? You invited every single person you know. Why would you leave him out?”
“Hey.” I feel a little pinch on my butt. “I just wanted as many people here to witness this auspicious occasion as possible. We’re only doing this once, love. I was just trying to—”
I pat him on his still hard stomach. Even over a year after quitting the sport he loves, he’s still in amazing shape. It’s annoying but also very, very nice. “I know. And you’ve done a brilliant job planning everything.”
