“I was thinking it’s time to try for another,” she said shyly.
“Another baby?” He caught her up in a surge of his big body, carrying her a few steps to brace her back against the wall, legs around his waist.
“No, another misprinted tag,” she teased, smoothing her hand down to his shirt pocket, finding the hard shape of his phone against the flexed muscles of his pec. “Let me call Sorcha, see if she’s up to meeting us in London in nine months.”
“You think you’re funny,” he told her, forehead against hers so they were eye to eye.
“You think I’m funny,” she told him.
“You’re a little bit funny,” he allowed, kissing her lightly, eyelids coming down in a smoky look of growing arousal. “Are we really going to conceive our second child in the nursery of our first?”
“That depends. Did you lock the door?”
He drew back to give her an arrogant quirk of his brow.
“Silly me. Show some faith, right?” She did have faith in him. She trusted him with her heart and her children and her life. “I love you, caro,” she told him, squeezing her arms around his neck, heart so full tears came into her eyes.
“I love you, too, bella. So much the words aren’t enough.” He carried her to the daybed and his weight came over her as he pressed her onto it.
She sighed with pleasure, absently releasing the tag she held as they got down to the serious business of making a new baby.
The following year, they looked at a tag that read, Ferrante—Girl. It was affixed to their newborn under Sandro’s proud gaze and went unquestioned.