Page 135 of Beauty and the Daddy
I should be nervous. Most brides are.
But all I feel is this wild, dizzy ache in my chest, like the universe finally stopped kicking me around and decided to give me one day drenched in beauty.
Also, my arms hurt because I'm carrying a six-month-old in lace. So maybe my mood is layered.
Leo gurgles in my arms, tugging at the delicate gold lace of my gown with fat baby fists.
I should probably tell him not to slobber on couture, but honestly? He can ruin everything I own and I'll still call him perfect.
His round cheeks, his ridiculous lashes, that mop of dark hair—he's Luca in miniature, only more drool and less scowl.
"Don't worry," I whisper against his forehead as we wait for our cue. "Mama's got you. Try not to scream during the vows, okay? We'll bribe you with cake. Whatever it takes."
Sofia leads our procession like she's conquering kingdoms, not scattering rose petals.
The crystal tiara she insisted on catches sunlight as she moves, each step deliberate and dramatic.
She's seven now, and every inch the little empress.
Bruno walks beside her in his custom bowtie, the picture of canine dignity despite the absurdity of formal wear.
He's appointed himself her personal guardian, and takes the job seriously enough to ignore Meatball's attempts to trip him.
Behind us, Meatball ambles down the path like he owns the estate.
Which, in his head, he probably does. The cat is chaos in fur, but apparently he made the guest list too. Don't ask me how.
The music swells. My heart does that stupid flutter thing. And then I see him.
Luca.
Standing at the altar in a black-on-black suit, looking like sin got dressed up for Sunday service.
His hair slicked back, jaw sharp enough to kill, eyes locked on me like I'm the only thing alive.
God. That look. That look is enough to drop me to my knees, if the lace and the baby didn't make that logistically impossible.
I start down the aisle. Not gracefully. More like a determined waddle, curves hugged tight by my gown, baby balanced on one hip.
And still, Luca stares at me like I'm the most dangerous, beautiful thing he's ever seen.
I glance at Sofia tossing petals in front of me and can't help grinning. "Don't trip, princess. You'll ruin my dramatic entrance."
"Don't trip yourself, Mama," she shoots back without missing a step. Sass is genetic, apparently.
Bruno woofs in agreement. Meatball ignores us all.
When I finally reach him, Luca's hands are already outstretched—not for me, but for Leo.
He lifts our son into his arms like he's made of glass, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
The sight of it almost knocks me over. The Beast, cradling a baby like he's holy.
"You look perfect," Luca murmurs to me, voice rough enough that I know he means it.
"You're just saying that because I'm carrying your child's food supply," I whisper back, because someone has to keep us honest.
His grin is quick, devastating, and private. Then the officiant clears his throat and begins.
