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Or not my name, exactly. Only one person called me that. Ces, pronounced “Chess.” A shortened version of my full, formal name. Francesca Zola. Which seemed to roll off only one man’s tongue. Someone with a deep voice. And blue eyes. And an English accent.
That exact voice pulled me from an oblivion laced with too many other voices to distinguish. This one, though, had a deliciously deep accent born in South London. This one growled through my dreams and beyond.
That’s right, I was with Xavier Parker. All six feet, five inches of gorgeous, brooding man who took my virginity and gave me the greatest piece of my life: my daughter.
To some, it would have been a fairy tale. And in some ways, it did feel that way. What else would you call it if you’d run into your child’s father not quite six months ago on a wintry night and close to five years since you’d seen him last?
And then held him at arm’s length for months afterward, trying to determine whether this seemingly cold, brazen man was, in fact, fit to be a father?
And then discovered that said man wasn’t simply a chef and restauranteur but, in fact, a member of the British peerage, something of a prodigal duke?
And then fell completely in love with him anyway, secrets and all?
Xavier’s harsh exterior had melted into a more loving and kind man than I’d thought possible—especially when it came to Sofia, our daughter. And then, by some miracle, he’d fallen in love with me too, despite the secret I’d kept, thinking it in my own best interest.
Fate intervened, so they say. And after four years of life as a single mom, I’d not only found my child’s father but also the love of my life.
Talk about luck.
Now I was here. In England, a land I’d visited through countless novels, seen through the eyes of too many heroines. I’d pretended to be Elinor Dashwood or Elizabeth Bennett in my dreams since I was a kid. But here I was, in the arms of my love like a real-life British romance heroine.
Or not quite.
We were outside Heathrow Airport, where, just as Sofia and I had found Xavier, the three of us had been absolutely swarmed by cameras, reporters, and throngs of people interested in…me?
“Mamaaaaa!”
A loud wail further yanked me out of my daze, and I turned toward Sofia, who was flailing from Xavier’s arms toward me like a baby octopus, crying and rubbing her eyes as the flashes continued to go off around us.
“Baby, don’t rub,” I said, taking her from him and balancing her on my hip despite being half-blinded myself.
“Do you mind?” Xavier snapped at the crowd. “She’s four.”
“Your Grace, who is that?”
“Is that your daughter, Xavier?”
“Is this the American you’ve been seeing?”
“Fuck off,” Xavier growled.
Without waiting for a reply, he shepherded Sofia and me through the crowd, out to the curb, and into the back of a large black car with tinted windows. The doors shut, and though the questions continued through the windows, they were much easier to ignore.
“Here, darling,” Xavier murmured as he stroked Sofia’s hair back from her face, which was currently buried in the collar of my fleece. She turned sideways and rubbed her nose into his Arsenal jacket, which left an impressive trail of snot leftover from her cryfest.
Xavier, to his credit, didn’t seem to care. That would have told me he was an actual parent if nothing else did.
“I’ve got you, Sof,” he told her as he petted her black curls, mussed from the flight. “They’re gone now.”
“Xavi, our bags—” I started.
“It’s fine. Jagger’ll get them.”
A few seconds later, the back of the car opened, and I turned to find the rakish, goateed face of Jagger Harrington, Xavier’s best friend, grinning at me over the seats as he tossed my suitcase, backpack, and Sofia’s various paraphernalia into the trunk. Elsie, Xavier’s assistant, had already taken her seat up front with the driver. After he finished, Jagger elbowed his way through the reporters and climbed into the middle row, and turned around to greet us.
“All right?” he asked.
“Did you know it was going to be like that?” I wondered to Xavier over Sofia’s head. Her whimpers were softer now, but her eyes were still scrunched closed while she clutched her favorite stuffy, a unicorn named Tyrone.
