kiss on my lips. I give
him my faux pout and sigh.
“Yes. These days I’m always hungry.”
“The three of us can ha一ve a picnic.”
“Three of us? Is someone joining us?”
Christian cocks his head to one side. “In about seven or eight months.”
Oh . . . Blip. I grin goofily at him.
“I thought you might like to eat al fresco.”
“In the meadow?” I ask.
He nods.
“Sure.” I grin.
“This will be a great place to raise a family,” he murmurs, gazing down at me.
Family! More than one? Dare I mention this now?
He spreads his fingers over my belly. Holy shit. I hold my breath and place
my hand over his.
“It’s hard to believe,” he whispers, and for the first time I hear wonder in his
voice.
“I know. Oh—here, I ha一ve evidence. A picture.”
“You do? Baby’s first smile?”
I pull out the ultrasound of Blip from my wallet.
“See?”
Christian examines it closely, staring for several seconds.
“Oh . . . Blip. Yeah, I see.” He sounds distracted, awed.
“Your child,” I whisper.
“Our child,” he counters.
“First of many.”
“Many?” Christian’s eyes widen with alarm.
“At least two.”
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“Two?” He tests the word. “Can we just take this one child at a time?”
I grin. “Sure.”
We head back outside into the warm fall afternoon.
“When are you going to tell your folks?” Christian asks.
“Soon,” I murmur. “I thought about telling Ray this morning, but Mr. Rodriguez
was there.” I shrug.
Christian nods and opens the hood of the R8. Inside are a wicker picnic
basket and the tartan blanket we bought in London.
“Come,” he says, taking the basket and blanket in one hand and holding the
other out to me. Together we walk into the meadow.
“Sure, Ros, go for it.” Christian hangs up. That’s the third call he’s taken
during our picnic. He’s kicked off his shoes and socks, and is watching me,
arms on his raised knees. His jacket lies discarded on top of mine, as we’re
warm in the sun. I lie beside him, stretched out on the tartan picnic blanket,
both of us surrounded by tall golden and green grass, far, far fro
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