Page 296 of A Song for You

I smirk as Cat pushes the hair out of my eyes and strokes her favorite place.

This is us. A little bit obsessed—okay, a lot obsessed—always slightly tousled, with swollen lips and big smiles.

A perfect life for two imperfect people who worked their asses off to get here.

“Please don’t let her marry him,” I beg.

There’s no way Chloe could have found this with Evan McCabe’s son. And how the fuck did my daughter—my literal pride and joy—end up dating someone in the Mob? It’s insanity.

Cat grabs hold of the front of my shirt, drawing my attention. Not that she ever doesn’t have it. “She’s happy. And he’s not part of the Mob. He’s just related to them. He’s an accountant, for fuck’s sake.”

I drop my head back. “Oh my sweet, naïve wife. He’s an accountant for the Mob.”

She tugs on my shirt, forcing my head up. “Stop. She’s happy. And I seem to remember another story involving a boy who most people believed didn’t belong with the girl he loved. And look at how they turned out.”

“Almost dead, Cat. We almost died to be together.”

She coughs out a laugh. “So dramatic. And if I remember correctly, you’d say it was worth it.”

I wrap my arms around my wife and pull her against my chest, pressing a kiss to her hair and inhaling that floral scent that first drove me crazy almost thirty years ago. “Always worth it. But are you trying to tell me he’s her Romeo?”

Cat shrugs against me. “Maybe. Who are we to say?”

I groan. Of course she’s right. Chloe is happy. Shane seems nice enough. Although, with all the tattoos, he’s not fooling anyone. The man is most definitely working for the Mob. He’s not just an accountant like my wife and daughter believe. But if I forbid it, I’ll only push Chloe away. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

As we take the stairs down to greet our guests, I stare at my wife’s ass in Chloe’s latest design. “God, she’s talented,” I mutter, still in awe of our daughter.

At twenty-six, she’s accomplished more than most fashion designers with decades of experience. And obviously, Cat has helped her. Being the daughter of a fashion icon who literally determines whether a designer’s career lives or dies can never hurt.

But Cat, despite her love for our daughter, would never jeopardize the magazine’s credibility if she didn’t believe in Chloe’s designs. If anything, she’s harder on her than any other designer. But Chloe shines. Just like her mother, she makes people work for her affection. She’s above the fray. Her cold blue stare brings everyone around her to their knees.

But fuck, her designs are gorgeous. Likely thanks to the mentorship she received from Sienna for all these years.

“She’s got more talent in her pinky than most designers.” Cat smiles as Chloe comes into view. She’s relaxing with a glass of champagne in her hand while speaking with Cynthia and Peter, who look at her the same way we do—with complete pride and infatuation.

JJ and James stand beside the appetizer table, stuffing their faces like we didn’t have lunch a few hours ago. Preteen boys never stop eating. I laugh as James catches my eye. The sight of the two of them beside one another always makes me smile. Our family is my entire world.

The chime of the doorbell has everyone falling silent.

“I’ll get it,” Chloe says, her eyes finding mine. “Sois gentil, s’il-te-plait.”

Be nice, please.

I grunt. “I’m nice. When have I not been nice to Shane?”

“It’s not Shane I’m worried about. It’s his uncle. Promise you’ll keep an open mind.”

“Because he’s the head of the Mob?” I grumble.

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Deviner chevre.”

I turn to my wife and whisper, “What did she just say?”

“Literally?” Cat replies, her lips tipping up in a teasing smile. “She said don’t have a goat.”

JJ and James burst out laughing, and Chloe turns around and glares at her younger brothers. “It means don’t be crazy.” Then, under her breath, she mutters, “Parler comme une vache espagnole.”

Cat snorts.