She looked like she belonged here.
"Are you happy?" I asked, pressing my nose into her hair. She smelled like vanilla and rain and the expensive shampoo Hastings had ordered from some boutique in Paris.
"I really am," she said, her voice soft and wondering. "Everything is perfect. You're all perfect."
I grinned, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You say that now, Liebling. Wait until you hear Hastings complaining to the chef about something not being quite right, or sacking someone for looking at you wrong, because he will."
She laughed, the sound bubbling up from her chest like champagne. "He wouldn't?"
I pulled back to look at her, my eyebrows raised. "He sacked the gardener last week."
"What? Why?"
"The man mentioned you looked 'nice' in your leggings."
Her eyes went wide. "That's insane."
"That's Hastings." I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "The man has no chill when it comes to you."
"But I was just wearing leggings. Normal leggings."
"You could be wearing a bin bag and he'd still lose his mind if another man noticed." I shrugged. "It's actually quite entertaining to watch. Etienne started a betting pool on how long the new driver will last."
"You're all ridiculous."
"We're all yours."
She smiled, that genuine, unguarded smile that made my chest feel too tight. Her hand found mine, our fingers lacing together.
Movement at the back of the garden caught her attention. Two men in high-vis vests were measuring something near the stone wall, their voices a low murmur as they consulted a blueprint spread across a folding table.
"What are they doing?" Presley asked, leaning forward.
"If they know what’s good for them, they’ll build a pergola," I said. "For the summer. So you have somewhere nice to sit with the baby. Shade, flowers, maybe a swing chair if we can convince Hastings it's not a structural liability." I squeezed her hand. "You must be seeing his obsession with you grow."
Her hand went to her stomach, still flat but holding the promise of our future. Our child. The thought still made my breath catch.
"You're building me a pergola."
"You can have whatever you want. Just ask."
She turned to look at me, her blue eyes swimming with tears. "I don't deserve you. Any of you."
"You deserve everything, Liebling." I cupped her face, my thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped. "And we're going to spend the rest of our lives proving it."
Her phone buzzed on the bench beside her.
The sound cut through the peaceful morning like a knife.
She picked it up, glancing at the screen. Her smile faded immediately, draining from her face like water through a sieve. The color went with it, leaving her pale and hollow-eyed.
"What is it?" I asked, sitting up straighter. My hand tightened on her shoulder.
Shedidn't answer. Her hands shook as she read, her lips moving soundlessly. I watched her throat work, watched her chest hitch with a breath she couldn't quite catch.
"Presley. What's wrong?"
"It's Mrs. McAdams," she whispered. Her voice was thin, fragile, like it might shatter if I spoke too loud. "A lady from the caravan park."
