Like every smile that’s come before and every one to follow, I have the overwhelming desire to own it. So I do, kissing it from his face.
Epilogue
Kennedy
“Have you seen Matilda’s mittens?”
“You mean her gloves?”
“Babies don’t wear gloves, Roman. Can you imagine trying to put them on these little fingers? These tiny, delicate, pink things.”
Roman’s head peeks from one of a pair of wingback chairs flanking a fireplace big enough to roast a horse in, never mind a hog. “All I’m saying is that I was recently given instruction by Matilda’s mother dearest, that when speaking to or in front of her brood, I should use the correct words.”
“I can use correct words, too.” I press the babe’s ear to my chest and my fingers over her other ear. “You are a penis, Roman Phillips.”
He looks up and grins, whether at my smiling delivery or my attempt at covering Matilda’s ears, it’s hard to tell. “I reckon she’s heard much worse,” he says. “Her mother peddles porn for a living, after all.”
“Let her catch you saying that,” I dare him.
“I’d only get the lecture. Fast Girl Media produces sensual erotica for women and couples,” he intones in a terrible impersonation of Chastity. “She can say what she likes,” he says, lifting a coffee cup from the spindly and suspiciously looking Jacobean side table. “But that baby’s first word will probably be dildo.” From posh accents to baby voices, Roman is on a roll.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, laughing anyway. He might be right, but I’m mainly laughing because he’s being his usual ridiculous self as he mimes a dildo like a baby rattle, hitting it off the side of his head.
“Ruby’s first word was fuck,” he says, taking a sip from his cup and pulling a face that suggests it’s already cold. “And her dad doesn’t make women whine for a living. He just makes wine for women for a living.”
Or maybe not.
“I suppose you think you’re funny.”
“I’m hilarious, and you know it. Actually, come to think of it, Byron does make old Sally moan a fair bit.”
“Leave your mother out of it. Byron might drive her crazy, but she’s a treasure. And just help me look for the baby’s freakin’ scratch mittens before your sister-in-law thinks I’m completely incompetent, would you?” I’d taken them off earlier, completely enamoured with her tiny hands. In fact, we both were. Roman is so good with kids and—
“Chas thinks you’re nothing short of a saint,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “I heard her saying so earlier. She was telling your sister that she and Flynn have barely had a moment to themselves since Max was born.”
“They must’ve had some quiet minutes,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to Tilly’s downy blond head to inhale her heavenly baby scent. It reminds me of when Wilder was a babe, though he smelled a little muskier. Maybe that’s a boy thing. “They have, after all, made two more babies since him.”
Max, or Maximilian, as his mother prefers, is currently playing in the gardens (plural, also not to be confused with a plain old yard) along with his grumpy, ringlet haired little brother, Barnaby, along our own son, Wilder, and my new brother-in-law’s nephews, Archie and Hugh. Phew! Anyhoo, they’re out there making snow angels at the suggestion (instigation?) of the new Duchess of Dalforth, who is also known as my goofy sister, Holland.
Alexander and Holly were married on Christmas Eve, here in his grace’s ancestral home, Kilblair Castle. Not that I will ever call Alexander his grace to his face. One, because he’s now family and two, because then I’d have to call my little sister her grace, and that’s not happening. Ever. I like Alexander, and Holland was right. Once you get past his haughty sounding accent, he’s a total pussycat. Sort of.
So it turns out I like to travel. This isn’t our little family’s first trip overseas because during Wilder’s summer break earlier in the year, we went to Australia to meet the Phillips clan. And they are some clan, let me tell you. It was kind of overwhelming at first. There are just so many of them. But they welcomed us with open arms and such an outpouring of love that Wilder and I couldn’t help but feel welcome. Wilder just adores his Nana Sally, and she loves him right back. She even likes me. I know his family must’ve had questions, but they weren’t directed at me. It’s almost as though Riposso Estates is a judgement free zone. Unless you a Phillips brother. Or a rival winemaker.
Sally even took me to one side after breakfast one day to tell me how happy it made her to see Roman, Wilder, and me together. She said something about being able to die easy, now that all her boys had been blessed with good women. But Sally is far too young, too full of life, glamour, and sassiness to be going anywhere. Like she told me herself, after one too many glasses of Byron’s delicious wine, only the good die young. The naughty get to hang around and cause mischief for much longer. If there was ever an advocate for a little naughtiness, Sally is it. It’s easy to see where Roman got his personality from.