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Darcy opened tired but happy eyes to take in the scene in the corner of her private hospital room.
And she would have laughed if she hadn’t been afraid of bursting her Caesarean stitches.
Max was sprawled in a chair, shirt open at the neck haphazardly, jeans low on his hips. His hair was even more mussed than usual, his jaw stubbled. If it hadn’t been for the two small bundles carefully balanced, one in the crook of each arm, he might have looked like the reprobate playboy he’d used to be, coming home after a debauched night out.
But he was no playboy. He was a lover and a husband. And now a father. Of twins.
They’d realised that Darcy must have had twins somewhere in her family line too when they’d been informed of the news by their consultant early on in the pregnancy. Much to their stunned shock.
Max was looking at his son and daughter as if they were the most prized jewels in the world. Awed. Domino and Daisy—named after Max’s Italian grandfather and Darcy’s English grandmother. They’d asked the Montgomerys—who had become good friends—to be godparents to a baby each, and already the older couple had proved to be far more dedicated than real grandparents.
Max said now to his son, whose eyes were shut tight, ‘Dom, just because you came first it doesn’t mean anything. In fact...’ He looked at his daughter, whose eyes were open wide, and said, sotto voce, ‘We’ll pretend you came first, Daisy, hmm? That way he won’t be able to get too big for his boots...and your mamma has had a lot of drugs, so maybe we can convince her of this too...?’
He looked up at Darcy then, and smiled goofily at being caught out. Love made her chest swell so much she had to take a breath. She smiled back and love stretched between them, binding them all together for ever.
* * * * *
