Page 176 of Dial F for Finance

“He stays.”

Dominic lifts his glass.

“Everyone says I gave Logan a family. Get it right one more time: the kid saved me first. He has been saving me for fifteen years. I just talk louder, so it looked like the other thing.”

Every glass rises.

“To Audrey—the only person who has ever out-calculated him. And to Logan Whitman. My first investor. My other brother. The best man I know, which makes it frankly ridiculous that I’m the one holding the title tonight.

“To the happy couple.”

“To the happy couple!” the boathouse roars.

Logan stands, crosses to my husband, and hugs him in front of everyone—both arms, no calibration, a real one.

“Your speech contained multiple exaggerations,” he says into Dominic’s shoulder, just loudly enough for the microphone to catch. “Withdraw none of them.”

Dominic throws his head back and laughs.

When the sun sets, the lawn fills up with everybody Logan and Audrey love, dancing in the gold. Bennett and Layla, slow and easy, like their wedding never ended—for them I don’t think it did. Caleb dips Serena until she threatens litigation and then he dips her farther. David and Nora sway with Michaela standing on her father’s shoes. Even Audrey’s burly brothers have brought dates and are dancing to celebrate their sister.

I stand at the edge of it and run the final audit of the season: every couple in this little family of ours started as a collision nobody planned—a wrong number, a scandal, a hand-block, a custody war, a drunken dare in Tokyo—and every single one of them ended up here, on this lawn, in this light, chosen on purpose. The sheets balance. They always did. We just took the long way to the totals.

Warm arms come around me from behind, and a jaw settles against my temple, and I lean back into my husband without checking who it is, because I never have to check anymore.

“That was a beautiful speech,” I murmur. “I’m so proud of you for highlighting what a wonderful man Logan is on his special day.”

“Thankfully, I learn from my mistakes.” His hands press warm against my waist, and beyond us the light goes molten on the water, and the quartet slides into something slow. He turns me around, holds out his hand, palm up the way he did that first time at Bennett and Layla’s wedding, the way he did at the gala, the way I hope he does when we’re ninety—and grins at me in that way that always makes my knees quake. “Dance with me till the lights go out, Mrs. Pemberton-Cruz.”

I slide into his waiting arms. “At least until the cake is cut.”

He dips his face toward my neck, inhaling deeply as his lips brush against my pulse point. “Please tell me that’s happening very, very soon.”

“It is.” I loop my hands around his neck, laughing at his impatience—not that mine’s much better. “But I need to tell you something first.”

His eyebrows lift in question. “You look nervous. Do I need to be worried?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. At least, I hope not.”

“I’m listening.” His worried eyes search mine.

“I’ve been systematically swapping my champagne for sparkling apple cider all day,” I confess, keeping my voice low enough that it doesn’t carry over the string quartet.

Dominic’s swaying slows just a fraction. His thumbs, which had been drawing lazy, distracting circles on my lower back, pause. He tilts his head, his dark eyes scanning my face. “Why? Did the caterers mess up the vintage?”

“The vintage is perfect,” I say, my heart rate accelerating. “My biology, however, is currently demanding I cut back on certain things—like alcohol, caffeine . . . soft cheese.”

He goes completely still. For a man who thrives on motion and leverage, the absolute absence of movement is staggering. I watch the information process behind his eyes—the fake drinking, the slight exhaustion I’d blamed on wedding coordination, the sudden, uncharacteristic nerves I’m displaying.

“Jenna,” he breathes, his voice dropping into a register that bypasses my ears and reverberates directly in my chest. “Sweetheart.”

“I fully intended to wait until we were back at the house,” I tell him, the words tumbling out in a rush of unprecedented vulnerability. “I wanted to do this whole bit to make it memorable. But keeping a secret from you for twelve consecutive hours is proving to be entirely too much. I simply can’t hold it in anymore.”

His hands slide up to grip my waist, firm and grounding. “Are you saying . . .”

“I’m saying we are going to need to babyproof the factory,” I whisper, a watery smile breaking through. “I’m pregnant, Dominic.”

For a second, the billionaire who always has a snappy comeback is entirely speechless. Then, a ragged, beautiful sound escapes his throat—a laugh that is half-disbelief and half-pure, unadulterated awe. Before I can brace myself, his hands drop to my thighs and he lifts me straight off the grass, spinning me into the crisp October air.