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“That’s what I hoped you’d say. I already had Ashford’s lawyer draw up the papers. Since Aurélie already publicly acknowledged him as my son, there isn’t much left to do. If he stays with his father, it’ll be less work for the French government to handle, so everyone is happy.”

“Toby wants to stay with us?” I ask, feeling my heart swell with emotion.

“I don’t think anyone could pull that kid away if they tried. He spent every day in this room, holding your hand. Talking to you. He tried to sleep here too, but I made Liv take him home.”

“We don’t deserve him.”

“Oh, I think you definitely do. And me—well, I’ll just spend every day trying to make sure I measure up.”

“You already do,” I tell him, unable to keep the tender smile from my face.

“He asked me if I was his father after the police left. You can imagine seeing and hearing the kinds of things his mother did would have him questioning everything she told him.”

Poor kid—he’s gone through so much at such a young age. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him I was.”

I blink at Grey in shock. “You lied?” He never lies.

“I didn’t lie. I don’t give a fuck who brought that boy into existence, he’s mine. Iamhis father, and that’s all he needs to know.”

I frown, loving the sentiment but hating what that kind of evasion could do to him if he learns the truth. “And what aboutwhen he gets older and wants to know his own story? His real story?”

“Then I’ll tell him everything. But me being his dad is never going to change.”

“Of course it won’t,” I agree. I’m touched by Grey’s determination to be Toby’s father. I think it makes me love him even more.

“Well, what do you think, then?” he asks for a subject change. “Do you want to wait here or take a little Parisian holiday for the next couple months? We could tour all the best restaurants and see if there are any chefs we want to poach for your own.”

“A holiday sounds nice. When’s the last time you took a real vacation, chef?”

“Probably a decade ago,” he says with a laugh.

“Let’s do it then. Break me out of this hospital, and we can be packed and ready by tomorrow.”

“We’ll have your injury cleared by a doctor,thenwe’ll start packing. Oh, and one more thing.” He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out something small, sparkly, and suspiciously circular in shape. Before I can protest, he slides the damn thing on my left hand. “There, I told you I could do better than a ring in a box. Now you’ll have a restaurant of your ownanda world-renowned chef as a husband.”

I’m not really sure what my reaction should be, so I just stare at the pretty gold band inlaid with diamonds and set with a large, teardrop-shaped diamond in the center. It’s beautiful and somehow suits me in spite of the fact that I’ve never even daydreamed about having a ring on my finger. What I’m trying to figure out is—what the fuck just happened?

“I’m sorry,” I stammer, my eyes still fixated on the huge engagement ring and my ears still ringing with the wordhusband.“Should there be a fucking question that comes with this? Because I feel like you skipped a step—or three.”

“Will you be my wife?” he asks, his voice so husky and deep I feel like he’s stroked my pussy with his words. And I’m so desperate for his touch.

“Why does that sound so much more sexy thanwill you marry me?” I gasp, swallowing thickly.

“Probably because you’re imagining the benefits that come with being my wife,” he practically purrs. His fingers claw down my inner thighs, and my breath catches in my throat.

“S-such as?”

“Such as being stuffed with your husband’s cum every morning and every night,” he growls as he slips his hands under my gown and finds me wet and aching for him. Without warning, he plunges two fingers inside me, and I cry out at the delicious feeling of being filled. He uses his other hand to circle my swollen clit, and I keen with pleasure.

“Do you like the sound of that, angel?” he asks, continuing his blissful assault that has me teetering on the edge within just a few moments.

“Yes,” I cry out as he hits that perfect spot tucked deep inside me with a curl of his fingers.

“So what’s your answer?” he demands.

“Yes,” I moan, not even sure what I’m answering.