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Her husband climbed out of the bed and carried their baby in strong arms to the bassinet, then laid him down gently on his back. She forced herself to stay awake so she could watch the familiar ritual.
She couldn’t help noticing the muscles in his backside flexing beneath the pyjama bottoms he had started wearing a few weeks ago—when she’d been so huge that sex had become impossible. She felt the familiar flutter of appreciation. It would be quite a while yet before she’d want to act on it—hello, ten hours of labour!—but she could still enjoy the show as Maxim concentrated on stroking his son’s cheek to lull him into a deeper sleep.
She gave another jaw-breaking yawn and noticed the glow of the summer dawn through the large bedroom’s shutters. She should probably go to sleep too. In two hours, three at the most, their insatiable son would want another feed.
Instead she blinked furiously to keep her tired eyes open, as she waited for Maxim to return to the bed. She had something important she wanted to ask him.
At last, satisfied that their son had finally fallen into a deep enough sleep, Maxim padded back to the bed. Climbing in beside her, he dropped a quick kiss onto her nose. ‘Go to sleep, Madame Durand.’
‘I will...but, Maxim, I’ve got another name for you first.’
They’d spoken—or rather argued—about what to call their son on and off for over three months now. Which had basically consisted of her coming up with names and Maxim vetoing them all. She loved that he was so determined to get it right, but seriously, their son would be in university before they came up with one they could agree on if they didn’t get a move on.
‘And this cannot wait until morning?’ he sighed, yawning himself, and then wrapped his arm around her shoulders to pull her against his side.
‘No.’ She snuggled into his embrace, the scent of sandalwood soap and baby’s milk that clung to his skin making the flutter of appreciation become a definite hum—and the warmth in her heart spread.
‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘What is your latest terrible suggestion?’ he said.
‘Stop it.’ She gave him a playful slap. ‘My suggestions are not terrible.’
‘Hugo? Eugene? Mortimer?’ he teased.
‘Mortimer was a joke.’
‘And the other two?’ he said, pressing his lips into her hair in one of the many absent gestures of affection he always showed her, that she had come to adore. ‘For them there is no excuse.’
‘How about Pascal?’ she blurted out.
He stilled, the easy smile dropping from his lips in the half-light. She could hear his heart thumping against her ear. And feel hers beating in time.
He frowned down at her. ‘What made you think of this name?’ he said, his tone gruff. But she could tell, from the emotion in his voice, which he never hid from her any more, that he had already guessed the connection.
‘You said once that your mother’s surname was Pascale.’
He stared at her and her heart thundered.
‘You remembered this?’ he asked, his voice raw with surprise but also rough with love.
She nodded, peering up at him. ‘Do you like it?’
He brushed a hand over her hair, then leant down to cover her lips with his, the intensity of the kiss all the answer she needed.
When he drew back his face was a picture of raw emotion. ‘Pascal Evans Durand,’ he murmured softly, his voice rich with love as he tried out the name. ‘J’adore,’ he said. ‘But not as much as I adore him... And you, Cara.’
