Page 25 of One Night on the Naughty List

Samantha

One year and twelve days of Christmas later…

* * *

I sank into a wicker chair in the sunroom, my dress poofing all around me. Through the windows, snow drifted to the ground, the flakes fat and fluffy. A flash of light caught my eye, and I looked down, startled anew at the honking diamond on my left ring finger. No matter how many times I saw it, I could never quite believe it was real.

Now that a wedding band had joined it, maybe everything would finally sink in.

I’d married the perfect man, and not even my aching feet or full bladder could dim the excitement singing through my veins.

“Hey, you,” said a low, familiar voice, and I looked up to see Mr. Perfect himself standing in the doorway.

My husband.God, I was never going to get tired of saying that.

He walked toward me, gorgeous as hell in a crisp black tux. A sprig of mistletoe wrapped in red ribbon nestled on his lapel—a nod to our Christmas-themed wedding. His mother had been over the moon when we told her we wanted to have the ceremony in North Pole, and she’d happily flung herself into organizing. The result was a winter wonderland beyond my wildest dreams.

But the real dream was the blue-eyed man looking down at me, a soft smile on his face.

“You’re a vision,” he murmured. “Mrs. Bain Thatcher.”

My breath hitched. “Say that again, please.”

He pulled me to my feet and into his arms, the full skirt of my white gown flowing around us. “Mrs. Bain Thatcher,” he whispered. He placed a soft kiss on my forehead. “My dear, darling Samantha.”

I leaned into him, content to stay in his arms forever.

He fingered one of the curls that had slipped free from my updo. Concern filled his eyes, and he moved his hand to my cheek. “You all right? You look pale.”

“Just a little queasy.”

The concern grew. “Queasy? Is it something you ate?”

“No.”

“You’re certain?” He pulled back a little, his gaze running over my face. “Maybe it was the champagne. You probably didn’t eat enough, and now—”

“Bain.” I fought back a smile. “It’s not anything I ate, and I didn’t have any champagne.”

He frowned. “Yes, you did. I saw you during the toast.”

“I pretended to sip it.”

“But… What?”

I lost the battle not to smile. Placing a hand on his stubbled jaw, I said, “Let’s try this another way, you silly, sexy man.” I took a deep breath. “You can’t play Santa ever again.”

“Why not?”

I took his hand and guided it to my stomach. “Because you’re not going to be the only Thatcher brother without kids anymore.”

For a second, he was totally frozen, shock glazing his eyes as he stared at my midsection. Then he lifted his gaze to mine. “You mean…”

I nodded, joy bubbling inside me, ready to overflow. “We’re having a baby. You’re going to be a father.”

He seized my face, his expression stunned and intense and overjoyed. “You’re sure? Are you okay?” He moved his hands to my shoulders, babbling. “God, you should sit down. You’ve been dancing for hours.”

Laughing, I grabbed his hands. “Stop. I’m fine.”

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