Page 55 of Leave Before I Love You

Part One

Henry

Avery’s face lights up as soon as I uncover her eyes, the bright luxury of Hermès Paris bathing us in gentle light.

The streets are fairly quiet this evening, and the glass storefront beckons almost as if it’s here only for us.

Avery turns and hits me in the stomach, her excitement at my surprise obvious.

“Oh my God, Hen! Hermès!” She rolls up on her toes and pushes her lips to my mouth before pulling back, beaming.

“Okay, okay, forget everything I said in the hotel earlier. You’re allowed to plan surprises.

Definitely. A lot of them. As many as you want. ”

I chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. I had a feeling you’d change your tune.”

“What are we doing here? Do you have an appointment? Wait…do you even know that you need an appointment to come to Hermès? Oh God, Henry.”

I laugh again, this time a little harder. “Yes. I know you need an appointment. I made one and have even chatted with the sales team about what I was wanting to do, and they’re all on board. Dr. Moretti’s office sent over the results, and they’re all ready. Just waiting for us. ”

“Dr. Moretti? Sent the results? What are you talking about?” She puts a hand to my forehead. “Are you feeling okay? You know this is a store, right?”

My smile is so big my face feels tight. My God, surprising her with this makes me feel like a superhero.

“Yes. I’m very aware that this is a store—and even more aware of the usual price tag. But this is a special occasion, and I wanted the venue to be appropriately Avery-themed.”

“Hermès is a good choice,” she admits, humming, and I laugh.

“Good.”

“So, what’s happening?” she begs again, shaking me. “What’s happening?”

“Let’s go inside and find out,” I suggest, putting a hand to the small of her back and pushing her gently toward the door. She goes willingly, if inquisitively, and when we step inside to a ready and waiting staff, her eyes light up all over again.

“Henry Callahan, you are so close to getting so damn lucky tonight.”

The salesman in front of us looks down to avert his eyes, a small grin lifting his lips, and I outright laugh. “Good. I have a feeling it’s going to get even closer very soon.”

“Mrs. Callahan?” the salesman says, clearing his throat when I turn to face him. “Would you like to know the gender of your baby?”

“Oh my God,” Avery whispers harshly, her hands flying to her mouth and her gaze locking with mine.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. In the box in front of him is a mini Kelly. Depending on the gender of our baby, enclosed in the results sent over by Dr. Moretti, is a blue or pink bag, waiting to be loved by you.”

“I love you,” she says, her eyes locked on mine despite how desperate I know she is to see the damn bag.

“I love you too. More than anything.” I wink at her. “Now, get over there so he can open the box, and we can find out. ”

Part Two

17 weeks later…

Avery

The fifth floor of Luxe is alive with energy, gowns shimmering under the soft lighting, and the ladies from The Pines flit between racks of couture like kids in a candy store.

It’s exactly how I imagined it when Henry convinced me to finally go all in and create my own styling company.

It feels like a lifetime ago that I admitted to Henry how I’ve always felt about Beau being the only Banks child with expectations of great things.

That I’m supposed to be the fun, wild, completely unserious Banks sibling.

Clearly, I’m still the most fun anyone could ever have, but I’m also more.

I’m smart and capable and I can do great things too.

Henry—my handsome, wild, also-happens-to-have-a-perfect-cock-that-knocked-me-up husband—helped me realize that.

And Luxe isn’t just a dream anymore; it’s a powerhouse. And today, it’s buzzing as usual, with my beloved troublemakers—Ethel, Blanche, Dottie, Joanne, and Sarabeth—trying on gowns for their charity dinner.

The space is perfect: polished marble floors, velvet furniture in shades of blush and champagne, and mirrors that make you feel like you belong in the pages of Vogue . It’s modeled after Hermès’ private shopping floor in New York—because every client deserves to feel like a star.

But right now, I’m a very pregnant star whose uterus is doing that stupid practice contraction thing. Braxton-Hicks, I think they’re called. It’s like my uterus thinks it needs to prepare for the Olympics or something. Relax, sheesh. The baby isn’t due for another week.

I adjust the strap on my stilettos—yes, I’m still wearing heels at thirty-nine weeks pregnant because who says you can’t be glam when you feel like a walking watermelon—and try to focus on Ethel twirling in front of the mirror in a gold gown.

“Darling, what do you think?” she asks, spinning with dramatic flair.

“It’s stunning,” I say, keeping my voice even as another practice contraction rolls through my belly.

“Are you sure, honey?” Blanche chimes in. “You’re sweating like a man at a summer barbecue.”

“I’m fine,” I say, brushing a strand of hair out of my face and plastering on a smile.

“You’re not fine,” Ethel says, narrowing her eyes. “I think you’re in labor.”

“I’m not in labor!” I snap, laughing it off. “My due date isn’t for another week. These are just those fake contractions. Braxton-Hicks or whatever.”

The next contraction, though, makes me clutch the edge of a nearby chair.

Blanche crosses her arms. “Avery, honey, you’re in labor.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re hunched over like a shrimp cocktail,” Dottie says. “I’d say that’s a sign.”

“Relax, everyone. I’m fine.” I wave them off. “Try on more dresses. I’ll grab some water and be right back.”

They don’t look convinced, but I make my escape, my heels clicking against the marble as I head toward the bathroom.

Once inside, I lock the door, lean against the counter, and try to breathe through another contraction.

“Okay, baby,” I whisper, pressing my hands to my belly.

“Listen, I know you’re eager to make your grand debut, but it’s not time yet, okay?

Mommy isn’t ready. Daddy isn’t ready. Your nursery isn’t even fully organized yet, and I don’t even have my hospital bag packed.

And plus, I took you to be more of a fashionably late kind of baby. I mean, I am your mother after all.”

Another practice contraction hits me again, but it’s so sharp and intense I’m starting to wonder how much more practice my uterus can do before it’s not practicing anymore.

Surely I’m not having this baby today… right?