"He gave me a fifteen-minute breakdown of my serve technique. I took notes."
"Of course you did."
"He also told me about Thomas's racket incident. In great detail. Including the shoelace trip."
"Apparently it's the talk of the club." I set down the cannoli and look at him. "Thank you, by the way. For Dad. For the nurse. For everything."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do. Because you made it about them, not about fixing things or proving anything." I pull him closer. "You're a good man, Victor Kade."
"I'm your man, Mrs. Beaumont-Kade. That’s all you need to know.” He grins wickedly, his gaze panning the room. “They really brought everyone out, didn’t they? Friends. Family. Neighbors?—“
"The entire book club," I interrupt, spotting the Italian grandmothers clustered near the food table, all talking at once in rapid Italian, their hands moving in elaborate gestures.
He laughs. “What did your parents do? Open the phone book and just start calling numbers?”
“And did you see the cake with video game controllers on it?”
"Your sisters made them. They're crocheted. Apparently they've been working on them for weeks."
"Of course they have." I look up at him—this man who somehow became everything without me even noticing it happening. In the warm light of the dining room, he looks impossibly handsome. The stubble. The gray eyes. The slight smile that's just for me. "Did you really know about this the whole time we were in Quebec?"
"Not the whole time. Your mother called while you were in the shower at the hotel. Told me the plan. Swore me to secrecy." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle. "I thought about warning you. But then I realized you'd stress about it the entire trip, and I wanted you to actually enjoy Quebec."
"So you let me walk into an ambush."
"I let you walk into a surprise reception thrown by people who love you and wanted to celebrate us." He pauses, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Big difference.”
I want to argue, but he's right.
I look around the room again—at all these people who showed up on New Year's Eve to celebrate a marriage that started as a drunken mistake and somehow became the most real thing in my life.
"Okay," I say finally. "This is actually really sweet."
"It is."
"But I'm still wearing jeans to my own wedding reception."
"You look perfect."
"I look like I just got off a plane from hell."
"You look like my wife. That's all that matters."
Before I can respond, Amelia appears with champagne glasses again. "Speech time! Victor, you're up!"
"I'm what?"
"Speech! You have to give a speech! You're the groom!" She's practically bouncing, her red dress swishing with the movement.
"I didn't prepare a speech."
"Neither did Harper, but she's doing one too! Come on!" She physically pushes us toward the front of the room, where everyone is gathering, and suddenly everyone's looking at us expectantly, glasses raised, smiles wide.
Victor looks at me. I look at Victor.
"You go first," I say.
