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Reed laughs. “Oh, shit. I’m a husband?” He looks down at the metal band on his finger. “Wait. Is that what all that ring exchanging and ‘I do-ing’ meant? Someone should have told me!”
I giggle with glee and kiss his ring. “Sorry, Mr. Rivers. The deed is done, and you can’t take it back. I’m all yours, according to a legally binding contract. And you’re all mine. Don’t you know the first rule of negotiations? Careful what you ask for—you just might get it.”
Reed nuzzles my nose, a huge smile on his face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Happy wedding day, Cinderella.”
I swoon. “I knew you were my Prince Charming, the minute I met you.”
He laughs. “And this is the part of the fairytale where we get to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.”
I look into Reed’s sparkling, chocolate eyes. “There’s no need for us to ride off anywhere, my love. We’re already here.”
Epilogue
Reed
Eight years later
My heart pounding, I park my small suitcase inside our front door and tear through our moonlit living room. I take the stairs, two at a time, and barrel down the hallway toward Leo’s nursery. As I approach the doorway, I hear the glorious sound of Georgina singing “Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon—the song I played for my beautiful wife the day she gave me Leonardo Ricci Rivers seven months ago.
As it turns out, I probably could have made Georgina a pop star, if she’d let me. I would have needed to rely heavily on Autotune, but I swear I could have done it, just for the sheer fun of it. As it is, though, Leo and I have been Georgina’s sole audience of two, the lucky ones who get to enjoy Georgina’s sweet, soulful voice behind closed doors. I swear, that woman singing to our son, especially this song, is in a three-way tie for my all-time favorite sound. The other two being every noise Leo makes, whether he’s laughing, crying, babbling, or eating, and every sound Georgina makes when we have sex. Especially the ones she makes when she comes.
My chest heaving from anxiety and exertion, I enter the nursery, and discover Georgina sitting calmly in a glider, holding our sleeping son in her arms. When she senses my movement in the doorframe, she looks up and her features contort with apology.
“Oh, love. You didn’t need to drop everything. I shouldn’t have freaked you out like that.”
I bend down and kiss her in greeting. “You think I’d stay in Vegas when Leo was running a fever and you were worried sick about it? You insult me.” I press my lips against Leo’s forehead, and to my relief, his skin feels only vaguely warmer than usual, not “on fire,” as Georgina described it to me, earlier today, in a panic. “When was the last time you checked his temperature?”
“About thirty minutes ago. The doctor said to check it every hour.”
“Check it now.”
I pull up a chair, as Georgina presses a thermometer to Leo’s temple. When it beeps, she holds up the reading, with a relieved smile on her face. “It’s down again. This time, by point-three.” She flashes an apologetic face. “I think it’s distinctly possible I overreacted here. I’m sorry. I should have left you alone to have fun.”
“Would you stop insulting me, please? I’m glad you called. I’d be upset if you hadn’t.”
“But your artists were up for so many awards. You should be at your after-party right now. Did anyone win?”
I scoff. “Nobody cares if I’m at the after-party. Truthfully, I was grateful to have an excuse to leave. And yes, we had lots of wins. Read about it on Google.” I touch Leo’s soft brown hair and gaze adoringly at his features. He’s got his mommy’s lips and nose. His daddy’s dark eyes and face shape. And, man, does this kid have a stubborn, fiery spirit, probably inherited from both of us. “When did Amalia leave?”
“She never left. She’s downstairs now, asleep in her old bedroom. You should have seen Amalia with Leo today. She was a baby whisperer. And my dad was so sweet to meet me at the doctor’s office before I could get ahold of Amalia. I was so grateful to him.” She kisses Leo’s little hand. “You’ve got a lot of people who love you, little dude.”
“He sure does. Including his daddy.” I reach out. “Hand him over. I’ve been going through withdrawals. I need my fix.” I unbutton and open my tuxedo shirt, and when Georgina hands him over, I press his tiny chest flush against mine—right over the ink on my left pec—which nowadays, as of seven months ago, reads, ReRiGeRiLeRi. The same as Georgina’s tattoo on the inside of her left ring finger.
It wasn’t easy to bring Leonardo Ricci Rivers into the world. It took three grueling rounds of IVF and a whole lot of prayers. Which was why, when I finally saw my son for the first time in that delivery room, I wept like a baby, shedding actual tears—and a whole lot of them—for the first time since age fourteen. And with each tear streaking down my face, I felt myself transforming—turning into the man I was always meant to be.
