Page 52 of Ruin Me Sweetly

Amber turned toward us, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried, and failed, to control her laughter.

“Best wedding ever,” she cried, before dissolving into another fit of giggles.

People swarmed in to deal with the aftermath, but all I could do was look at the love of my life, and the family gathered around us.

Every single one of them was fierce, in their own particular way.

But when it came to any outsider, we all closed ranks without hesitation.

The chaos was the beauty of it.

I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Chapter 25

Isabella

Luke reached out to touch my abdomen again. He was convinced I’d overheat under the Maltese sun, and had appointed his hand as my personal thermometer. I raised my sunglasses to stare at him. Within the first five days, he’d tanned like some mythical Greek god. My eyes lingered on his happy trail and the tight little navy swimming trunks he wore. He was possibly Poseidon, and had a sea serpent for a cock.

“Darling, if you need cock, just ask. There’s no need to look so longingly at it,” he drawled.

“Ugh. You spoiled it by talking,” I said, pushing his hand off while he chuckled.

I rose from the lounger and stretched out.

This was my first proper adult break in years.

It was exhilarating, a true mental break from everyday life, without the constant weight of worrying about anyone else. It was our bubble. Though I did message the children every single day—but that was in the evening, so it didn’t count.

“If you want my ass, darling, just ask. There’s no need to perve on it,” I drawled, matching his tone from earlier.

The lounger scraped against the poolside tiles just as I dived into the water.

Sucker.

❧ ❧ ❧

Luke’s thumb brushed over my wedding ring before he toyed with the diamond on the other. The evening air still held its warmth, the sky just edging toward dusk, streaked in soft violets and gold above the harbour.

But it was the view the restaurant was famous for—dark water rippling black against the glittering lights strung along the marina, boats bobbing gently at their moorings, laughter and music drifting faintly from somewhere further along the promenade.

I smiled to myself as the waiter who’d seated us brought over our drinks, the ice in my sparkling water catching the last of the light.

My new husband cleared his throat.

“My wife cannot have any raw or undercooked meat. No unpasteurised dairy. No raw eggs. No liver or pâté. No alcohol. And no processed meat,” he rattled off.

Then came the smug smile.

“My wife is pregnant,” he declared, as if he expected the poor man to bow, in recognition of his own miraculous role in creating new life.

The waiter was too busy jotting it all down on a tiny paper pad.

I had no doubt in my mind about what kind of father Luke would be. It wouldn’t matter to him whether he had a son or a daughter. If I hadn’t known why he was like this, his intensity might have overwhelmed me. But in those quiet, intimate moments, he’d shared his desires with me, as well as his fears.

His biggest one was the fear of failing his family.

I leaned in and placed my hand over his, turning the other palm-up to hold him. His gaze broke away from the waiter and the order he was placing. His smile softened, and those small creases—the ones I’d grown to love—gathered at the corners of his eyes.