Page 158 of The Daddy’s Girl

He’s wearing a haughty smirk as he runs his fingers over the cashmere.

I slam my hands over my face in mortification. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew, Trouble.”

“Oh my God, this whole time?”

He peels my hands away from my face and kisses my lips. “You know what I think?” he asks in his stupid, charming, sexy French accent.

“What?”

“I think…you knew even then that we’d end up here. I think you saw more in me than I saw in myself, and you gave me your heart long before we found our way to each other. I don’t think it was a crush. I think it was just your heart getting a head start.”

Still smothering my embarrassment, I let him kiss me gently. Because deep down, I think he’s right to some degree. I didn’t just have a crush on him. My heart recognized him.

“Take me home, old man.”

Nuzzling myself under his arm, I cling to his side as we walk. Not far from home now, he kisses my head. As I glance up at the night sky, the stars over Paris shine down on us, witnesses to the start of my favorite love story. The one that began the night we took the long walk home with some day-old macarons and “La Vie en Rose.”

Or maybe it started with a crush or some accidental voyeurism.

All I know is it doesn’t matter when it started, as long as it never ends.

Epilogue

Amelia

Seven years later

The paper bag full of groceries hangs under one arm as I balance my portfolio, my purse, and my uneaten lunch in one hand and I turn the key in the door of the apartment with my other.

The sound of sweet laughter echoes through the house as I walk in, letting the door close behind me. Kicking off my shoes, I smile at the giggles emanating from somewhere inside.

“Where are my girls?” I call as I drop everything on the bench by the door.

The tiny stomping of feet growing louder greets me as I move through the living room. Maisie bolts into the room in a paint-stained dress and her stark white hair hanging in what’s left of two buns on either side of her head.

“Mama,” she shouts with excitement. “Come look!” Turning on her heels, she scampers back down the hall toward their rooms.

Arching my back to relieve some of the tension around my slowly cramping rib cage, I follow the three-year-old to see what she has to show me.

When I turn the corner, I bite my bottom lip as I take in the sight. Matis is on the floor in Stella’s room, his back against the three-story dollhouse as our five-year-old kneels in front of him, biting her tongue as she focuses on applying a bright pink shade of blush to his cheeks.

Maisie giggles hysterically as if nothing funnier or more entertaining has ever happened, which is how she genuinely reacts to everything. It makes my cheeks hurt to watch her.

Matis winks at me with a smile. “Welcome home, mon trésor.”

“Bouge pas, Papa!” Stella scolds him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, staying still for her to finish her job. He has thick black eyelashes, with mascara caked on his temples and under his eyes. There’s red lipstick in circles around his mouth and a bright pink bow planted at the crown of his head.

“Papa looks joli, Mama?” Maisie asks in her jumbled French and English.

Leaning down, I pick her up and plant a kiss on her chubby cheek.

“Daddy looks very pretty,” I say. “Did you have a fun day at home with Papa?”

“Oui!” she chirps, wriggling herself out my arms. Unless in a deep sleep, Maisie can usually only hold still for roughly two to three seconds. Back when I used to nurse her, it was the only thing I could do to make her still. Now that she’s outgrown that, she’s in a constant state of motion.