The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,75
pulling me back into his arms.
His erection tells me he likes what I said though.
“So am I. I condoned what you did,” I counter with a shrug. “And I’ll condone it again. So long as I think it’s right.”
He narrows his eyes. “Only God can help me now.”
My lips curve in a smile. “Oh, baby, he’s been helping you all along since the day I saw you on TV.”
Xavier
Four years later
I pick up the screaming child, wondering what I did to deserve a child louder than his mother.
When the other two start wailing, I plead, “Dear Lord, what will it take to stop you from yelling?”
A snicker sounds from the other side of the room, and I twist around and find my wife staring at me, leaning against the doorjamb and somehow managing to look sexier than she should when she’s dressed for business and not to impress.
She’s wearing a smart pantsuit, not her usual attire of shorts and a cami that always shows just enough to keep me hard if I eye her up, and her hair is twisted up in a bun that reminds me of a secretary.
I want that rope of hair in my hand as I pull her head back—
Damn, I really need to not have an erection right now.
Her smug smile has me narrowing my eyes at her. “You said three hours.”
She grins unapologetically. “The meeting went over.”
“You signed?” She wasn’t sure if the production company who wanted to produce the book she’d written about a priest who killed sinners in his parish would have the same creative vision she had, but from her smug smile, I get the feeling things had gone well.
Yeah, the story was cutting very close to the bone, but before I left Rome, I returned to France to visit my parents, and I changed my name.
I was no longer Savio Martin, but Xavier Martinez, and I was damn glad I had now. In four years of being together, she’d only managed to write one book.
The Vows We Break had been a bestselling hit, and the production companies have been at her for months about a movie.
With a different name, I don’t have to worry about anyone connecting the dots. Meager though they might be.
I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in a destiny that makes it so me and this woman, my angel, are tied together until the day we die, but that doesn’t mean life can’t get in the way of God’s will from time to time.
“I signed.” She winks at me. “Twenty million coming our way.”
I snort. “No way.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Yes way.”
My lips twitch. “You’re too rich.”
“We are.” She shrugs. “Plus, it’s for them, isn’t it?”
The three children who are more like hell spawn than angels for my comfort.
My nose wrinkles. “Why did we have triplets again?”
“Because my body is overactive and you have super sperm?” she teases, strolling in with more of that loose-limbed gait that has my dick hardening.
Again.
At forty-six, I should be too old for these instant boners that remind me of when I was a teenager, but I figure I have a long time to make up for.
When she picks up one of the snuffling toddlers who had stopped wailing when their mama made an appearance, I haul the others into my arms.
There’s Grayson, Thiya, and Arabella, but Grayson is the biggest baby of them all.
When his mama isn’t around, he sulks like mad.
Huffing now that he’s in Andrea’s arms, like he’s pissed because he was always supposed to be there, me and the girls just roll our eyes at him, but at least they stopped their sobbing too.
I hate hearing them cry, hate it for so many reasons, but though it can make me murderous, how can I slay a table corner they bumped into? How can I slaughter a bottle of ketchup for being empty?
Kids cry at the most random stuff, and I have to be honest, it both amuses me and drives me nuts. I think, to a certain extent, it’s also tempered me.
I never expected to have kids, so having three is a gift. But at the same time? My punishment.
My mouth curves at the thought, and I press my lips to both golden heads.
They all take after their mother, but Grayson has my darker coloring. I’m glad though. They’re all angels, and only have my temperament when they’re hangry.
Andrea holds the back of Gray’s head and flops down into the sofa, making him giggle. I prop myself