Page 292 of The Billionaires

Before he can tell another anecdote, Bernard grabs the microphone, announces himself the true best man, and tells everyone that I was the inventor of the baby-mop onesie—a garment your toddler can wear as they crawl that cleans the floor at the same time.

“He plans to have Piper wear it.” He gestures at where my daughter is sitting on Georgiana’s lap. “But I say he’ll end up spending more money on the bills for her therapy than he could ever save on a cleaning lady.”

Jane furrows her brows.

“He made that up,” I say. “But I did once attach regular mops to his tracksuit when he was so drunk that he was crawling.”

She grins. “Drunk Idiot Mop Onesie™.”

Before Bernard can start telling another story, someone cuts the sound to the microphone.

Fucking finally.

“Let us all thank the best men,” the DJ says, imbuing the words with elephant-heavy sarcasm. “Now, please, go dance before it’s time to enjoy your favorite wedding breakfast dishes.”

Jane sighs. “Wedding breakfast is what they called the reception back in Victorian times.”

Hmm. If wedding breakfast isn’t literally a breakfast, Jane might mind some of the surprise dishes I’ve added to the main course, such as Eggs Benedict and French Toast.

The music starts playing, and it’s a club-like remix of the theme from Bridgerton.

“Want to dance?” Jane shyly asks.

Refuse this offer I cannot, which means suffer Yoda will.

Downing my champagne, I get on my feet and extend a hand to Jane. “My lady.”

She takes my hand. “Now that we’re married, we’re allowed to be less formal. Especially in private.”

“Great,” I say as I lead her to the middle of the dance floor. “I can finally call you Jelly Bean. Or would you prefer Janilla? Maybe J-Bone?”

“In that case, your nom de plume shall be Applesauce,” she says. “Or Rio. Or Adieu. Or Audrey. Or just Drey. Maybe even Dr. Drey?”

I twirl her. “You win. You’ll just be my Jane.”

“I like that.” Her cheeks turn pink. “And you’ll be my Adrian.”

Seriously, Yoda? That gets you going too?

As soon as the remix stops, a song by Céline Dion comes on, so we slow dance to that. Because I don’t have any excuse to kiss Jane at this point, I fight the weird urge to do so.

“Hungry?” I ask Jane a couple of songs later.

She bites one of her delectable lips. “Ravenous.”

Returning to the table, we sample the menu and find it all delicious.

Jane’s family comes over, with Piper still sitting on Georgiana’s hip and the bodyguard/nanny on their tail.

I kiss her cherubic cheek. Piper’s, that is.

“Can the little one spend the night with me?” Georgiana asks.

I nod. “So long as you’re willing to sleep in her nursery.”

Jane’s grandmother frowns. “At your place?”

“Correct.”

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