Page 56 of Deadly Don's Baby Contract

"Home?" She looks from him to me.

"Yes. Surprise!" I say sheepishly. My heart is in my throat, wondering how she'll react.

She stands frozen in the doorway. The house manager, Louis, ushers her in and takes our coats.

"Would madam care for something warm to drink?"

She struggles to answer him.

"Could you prepare two hot chocolates, Louis? We'll have them in the living room by the fireplace once I've shown Mrs. Morelli around our new home."

He nods and, after a "certainly, sir," walks off to make the drinks.

"Our home? Franco? Really?" she asks, still afraid to take a step further than the entranceway.

"Yes. What do you think?"

She takes it in. She seems almost intimidated.

"If you don't like it, we can change it. Move. Redecorate. Redesign. I know I really should have spoken to you before, but it was priced to move...I've made a mistake, haven't I?" I turn and look at the house.

"It's beautiful. I love it!" she says. Tears start to roll down her cheeks.

"No, no! No tears. It's a happy day," I say, scooping her up with raining kisses on her wet cheeks.

"They're happy tears. Ecstatically happy tears," she whimpers.

"Do you want to see the rest of it?" I ask, and she nods. I take her through our new home, and with each room, she begins to believe me and opens up. Relaxes and begins to envision our life here together. The room next to ours will be the nursery.

"We'll have to wait and see which color to paint it. I've always hated neutral colors for babies. I hate green and yellow. I don't care if he likes pink or she likes blue. As long as it's a color they love," she says.

"The same goes for the rest of the house. As long as it's what we love."

Chapter 22

Aria

The last month has been a heady one for me and Franco. We didn't get to go on a honeymoon, but in a lot of ways, the past few have made up for all that, and we've made the most of it. We've been creating our dream home and life together, and it's been magical.

Although there are painters and builders around, it's relatively stress-free. The house is coming together and already reflects Franco's solid, warm, and outdoorsy nature with soft feminine touches that welcome people while remaining a safe and sacred place for us.

"I think I finally have the life that I've always dreamed of," I tell Franco as we lay on the chaise lounge in the solarium on one particularly beautiful fall day. The leaves on the trees outside are vibrating with red, gold and brown leaves. We watch as some fall from the branches and float to the ground. There's something so meditative about watching this cycle of life ending while knowing that it's just a prelude to a time of deep rest and then renewal. I hope our child has the same reverence for the beauty that surrounds us—the simple things.

"How do you think we raise good kids, do you suppose?" I ask Franco absentmindedly. He stirs, and I sense that he's thinking about the question. I am curled up next to him. My head is on his chest, and my fingers draw circles on his stomach. When I first started doing it, he said it felt like I was rubbing a dog's tummy, but now he gets mad when I don't do it.

"I don't know. I guess you take a little of your own upbringing and how your parents raised you and learn a little from others where you can, books, that kinda thing." He pauses. "My parents are great, but there are things that I wish had been different now that I'm going to be a dad."

"Like what?" I look up at him, and a slow smile crosses my face.

"What!?" He asks.

"It's the first time I've heard you refer to yourself as a dad," I say.

"Is that weird?"

"No. It's lovely and a little sexy," I reply and go back to staring out the window.

"Oh no, you don't!" he says and turns my head back up towards him. I know what he wants, and I am happy to oblige. He kisses me warmly and tenderly for a few minutes. His tongue probes my mouth, and his hungry mouth makes every cell in my body stand at attention. He finishes with a few slow, easy pecks to my top and bottom lips and then the top of my head.

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