Page 136 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

When we reach the arbor—woven with ivy and late-blooming jasmine—Enzo is already waiting, barefoot in linen trousers, his sleeves rolled. He sees Sophia and his entire body stills. Then he smiles so wide it lights up the entire hillside.

Raphael stands beside him, best man, dressed in a tailored black suit, hands clasped. He catches my eye as I step into place. Gives me the smallest nod. I return it. Odette sits near the front, one hand curled around her father’s arm, the other gliding over the screen of her phone. She looks up, catches me watching, and grins.

The ceremony is short, soft, spoken like secrets. Vows exchanged, rings blessed with rosewater, hands tied with ribbon. When Enzo lifts Sophia’s veil and kisses her, the whole meadow seems to sigh.

And then—laughter, applause, glasses clinking as the reception spills into the open. The main tent is lit with string lights, long farm tables draped in ivory linen, centerpieces of wild grapes and dried lavender. The DJ—not Raphael, who’s stationed at the photobooth near the orchard entrance—kicks into a soulful Stevie Wonder track.

I’m handed a glass of sparkling grape juice before I can protest. Asher’s doing rounds near the food stations—grilled peaches, herb-marinated lamb, bread fresh from the stone oven. He winks at me from across the tent. “Red wine for everyone in thirty minutes,” he calls. “But you get this.” He taps the glass.

I salute him.

Maddox lingers near the back, arms crossed, in a navy blazer that can’t hide the line of his stance—security, always. But his gaze finds mine and softens. He gives me that rare, almost imperceptible smile. The one that says, I see you.

Killian appears at my side, offering his arm. “Dance with me, Harper?”

I blink. “You? Dancing?”

“It’s a wedding.” He shrugs. “I figured I should try.”

We step onto the cobbled floor of the tent’s dance area. The music is slow, honeyed, the kind that makes the air feel thicker. Killian’s hand rests at the small of my back, warm, steady. We move in lazy circles. And then⁠—

A flutter. Then a firm, unmistakable thump.

I freeze.

My hands fly to my stomach.

“Harper?” Killian’s voice is instant, low, sharp with concern.

I’m still staring at the space between us. Then I laugh—sudden, breathless. “He’s kicking.”

His eyes widen. “Now?”

“Right now.” I grin, tears pricking my lashes. “Right here.”

Without a word, Killian lowers his hand. Gently, carefully, he places it over mine, flat against my belly.

And then the baby kicks again—hard, insistent, like a tiny fist against the wall.

Killian’s breath catches. His hand trembles. Then his face—so often guarded, so practiced in stillness—breaks into a smile so wide, so bright, it makes my heart crack open.

“He’s strong,” he whispers.

“Like her dads,” I say, voice thick.

Asher is already pushing through the dancers, his chef’s jacket still on, apron tied crooked. “What? What’s happening?”

“He just started kicking,” I tell him.

Asher drops to one knee right there on the cobbled floor, heedless of the wine stains and crumbs. He presses both hands to my stomach, eyes closed. “Hey, little one,” he murmurs. “That’s me. I make the good food.”

Another kick. Hard.

He laughs, breathless. “Oh. Oh. He knows.”

Maddox hovers at the edge of the circle forming around us. He doesn’t move closer. Just watches, fingers flexing at his sides.

I reach out. “Maddox.”