Page 137 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

He hesitates. Then steps forward.

“I want you to feel,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to⁠—”

“You won’t hurt him. Just—here.” I take his hand, rough and warm, and press it to my belly.

He flinches. Then stills.

We wait.

Seconds pass. Then—another roll, a slow shift, like a sigh beneath my skin.

Maddox’s breath hitches. His fingers tremble. He looks up at me, eyes wide, uncertain—then slowly, so slowly, his face changes. The hard lines of his jaw ease. The shadows in his eyes soften.

And he smiles.

Not the grin he flashes at the staff, not the smirk when he wins a bet. This is different. Quiet. Tender. So pure it makes my knees weak.

I cover his hand with mine. “That’s her,” I whisper. “Saying hello.”

Around us, the music swells. The air is warm, golden. The others have gathered—Sophia and Enzo, arms around each other, grinning. Odette claps softly. Raphael abandons the photobooth, camera still around his neck, and saunters over, slinging an arm around Asher’s shoulders.

Sophia steps forward, eyes bright. She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts over the music: “DJ! Play that song again! My baby sibling is vibing!”

Laughter erupts. The DJ—a friend of Killian’s from the city—grins and slaps the button. The same Stevie Wonder track starts over, the opening chords pulsing through the grass.

Sophia grabs my hand, then Enzo’s, then Odette’s. “Dance line!” she yells. “We’re dancing for the baby!”

And just like that, we’re moving—laughing, swaying, arms linked. Asher spins Sophia under his arm. Enzo dips Odette. Raphael grabs Maddox and twirls him like a ballet puppet, making everyone shriek with laughter.

Killian pulls me close again, one hand back on my spine, the other resting gently on my stomach. “He likes this song,” he says.

“He likes everything,” I murmur. “Even the quiet.”

He leans in, presses his forehead to mine. “We’re going to be okay,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. The baby kicks once, firm and sure.

And I know⁠—

We already are.

53

ASHER

The engine clicks off, and silence settles like dust after a storm. Outside, the air is thick with the scent of damp earth and late-blooming jasmine, the kind only found in the hush between summer’s end and autumn’s first breath. I reach across the seat, my fingers brushing Harper’s knee before curling beneath the curve of her belly. She’s laughing already, even blindfolded, because we’ve done this before—surprises wrapped in secrecy, moments strung between us like fairy lights along the vineyard’s old arbor.

But this one is different.

“Careful,” I murmur as I step out, circling the car to open her door. My boots press into the gravel drive, soft underfoot after last night’s rain. The château looms behind us, its stone façade bathed in the low amber glow of early evening. Windows flicker with that quiet, watchful light of a home waiting to be lived in, not just admired.

“Where are we?” she asks, voice pitched with curiosity, her hands lifting to tug at the linen blindfold.

“Not yet,” I say, catching her wrists gently. My thumb skims the pulse beneath her skin. “Just a few steps more.”

Killian stands at the edge of the portico, hands in his pockets, the cuffs of his rolled sleeves revealing the dark ink that winds up his forearm like ivy. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. The quiet possession in his stance—the way his gaze follows her every move—says enough. Beside him, Maddox leans against a pillar, one shoulder dipped, his grin easy, but I know better. That look in his eyes, the way his jaw clamps when she walks past him—it’s restraint. Reverence, barely contained.