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“I never said you did. But we’ll be needing that nursery,” she told him. And slid her hands over her belly in case he’d missed her point. “In about eight months?”
She was somehow unsurprised when her husband reacted to this news by swinging her up into his arms, spinning her around, and then making sure she was well and truly pregnant by taking her right there on the cottage’s small sofa.
Their son was born a month before Delaney gave birth to a black-haired, blue-eyed daughter, the new heir to the kingdom. She and Cayetano named the new Princess Catarina Amalia, in honor, Delaney said, of two of the finest women she had ever known.
In time, Amalia gave Joaquin three more sons, each one of them more delightfully disreputable than the last. And she was not the least bit surprised that her beloved, who had never wanted a child, was such a good father to his boys that it could still make her cry. And often did.
But it was not until the eldest Vargas boy, the extraordinarily stubborn and too-much-like-his-father Roderigo, married Princess Catarina that Amalia and Delaney stopped calling themselves sistersafter a fashion.
Because they all became family in truth.
“And if I had to do it all over again,” Amalia told her first royal grandchild, in the nursery of the palace where she had played herself, as a child, “I would not change a thing.”
When she looked up, she found Joaquin standing there, watching her as he always did.
With love in his heart and written all over his face.
They had spent their lifealive, and had fought to keep from squandering love along the way. They had treated their life, their love, and their happiness as gifts.
Because that was the way thathappy ever aftercame true.
Every single day.
