Page 186 of Angel

‘Thanks, brother,’ Jude rasped, his timbre husky with emotion.

He gazed down at Sofia with so much love that tears pricked my eyes. ‘We’re so ready for it.’

Angel arched a brow. ‘You think? Just wait until that kid gazes up at you and squeezes your finger in their little hand. You’re not going to handle the tears or how much you’ll melt into a puddle of mush.’

We spent the rest of the dinner exchanging baby stories, with Angel detailing his diaper-changing speed records and I giving the soon-to-be parents a few tips for their baby journey ahead.

That night in bed, Angel tugged me close to him, his hand resting on my hip.

‘I’m calling it right now,’ Angel prophesied in a deep rumble in the dark. ‘You think I’m a softie with Mila? Jude will be a goner when his bubba comes. That child will walk all over him.’

I laughed, turning my head to plant a kiss on his jawline.

‘Oh yes, but let’s be real, husband. You’re already wrapped around our daughter’s little finger, so you’ve no leg to stand on.’

‘Hey, I’m the boss, mama,’ he mumbled against my hair, though his chest shook with a chuckle. ‘I just choose to let her win.’

Three days later, Deacon and his ten-year-old son, Raff, arrived, joining Jude, Sofia, and us.

We welcomed them with delicious fresh lemonade, golden calamari, and bitter arugula salad.

We ate while Raff rocked Mila’s bassinet under the shade.

By eight, the ocean breeze cooled as we chatted, carrying the sound of crashing surf up the cliffside.

Deacon’s phone buzzed on the table, breaking our conversation.

He stepped into the living room, his mouth twisting into a hard line as he listened to the voice on the line.

He strode back out to us, posture tense, his face stormy.

‘Ana and her husband, Massimo, are swinging by,’ Deacon grunted, rubbing the inked skin on the back of his neck. ‘Raff left his dental tightening kit for his braces at her place in London. I hope that’s OK?’

‘Of course, mate,’ Angel grunted. ‘How are they on the island?’

‘They’re heading to Capri for a friend’s birthday celebration anyway, so they’re dropping it off now.’

Ten minutes later, the front doorbell rang.

Angel went to get it and soon returned with Ana, Deacon’s stunning ex-wife.

At five-foot-nine, she sashayed in like the ex-model she was, with effortless elegance in golden high heels suited to a Paris runway.

Her face was exquisite, and her brunette hair fell in waves past her shoulders.

She wore a soft grey midi dress that draped over her perfect frame.

Alongside her was a suave man in his fifties dressed in head-to-toe Italian designer threads.

Massimo was a famous Italian actor who grinned at us with an energy that was too suave and oily.

Deacon, Jude, Sofia and I got up to greet them.

I noticed Jude’s eyes harden and go cold as he raised his chin at Ana and her man.

Deacon’s face, when his eyes fell on Ana and Massimo, was tight and strangely intimidating.

‘Welcome,’ I told the pair with a smile.