Our friends and family cheer, and the ceremony begins. There is no aisle to walk down, no flower girls tossing petals, no string quartet playing tunes. This is a simple ceremony, but already it’s my favorite one.

  Because everyone who matters is here. Gathered in my small front yard, which blooms with August’s soft pink and pale-yellow snapdragons, are all the people who matter most to us. Joy holds hands with Griffin, Erik stands next to Veronica, Oliver is here too, my family is gathered close, and Christian’s mom is here as well as his father and his wife. Christian’s not close to his dad, but it still feels right that he’s present.

  The officiant clears his throat and marries us once again. This ceremony is nearly as fast as our first one, but it’s better because we can finally say out loud how we feel.

  “I promise to love you, cherish you, and adore you for as long as we both shall live,” I tell him, and Christian says the same words to me.

  “Kiss the bride, finally, will ya?”

  Christian laughs at his brother’s directive, then says to me, “I’ll keep doing that for the rest of my life.”

  He kisses me under the twilight sky on our street, in front of my home, where we now live together.

  I loop my hands around his neck, and I’m still holding a bouquet of flowers, tied together with a slim rope. It’s a true hodgepodge, with a few roses, some stargazer lilies, a couple of daisies, and some zinnias. This melting pot of petals is courtesy of my new blog readers, the ones who follow my occasional posts about flowers. They didn’t send me a perfume bottle, and I didn’t want one. Instead they chose the flowers for my bouquet. Lilies for beauty, daisies for innocence, roses for love, and zinnias for lasting affection. I love that it’s completely haphazard and completely meaningful in a whole new way.

  Most of all, I love that the promise of the zinnias feels possible as I kiss my husband once more.

  Later that night, we all go out to dinner down the road, where we pretty much take over the five-table bistro, toasting with endless glasses of champagne and wine. At one point, Christian grabs me as I walk by and pulls me into his lap. He wraps his arms around me and nuzzles my neck. “At last. I can finally be a kept man.”

  I laugh and drop a kiss to the end of his nose. “You know what that means, if you really want to be my trophy husband?”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means you have to service my needs, any night, any time I request.”

  He puffs out his chest. “I believe I do that already.”

  “And I think you’re pretty damn good at it.”

  Christian is anything but a kept man. He’s his own man, carving out the life he wants, picking up the jobs he wants, whether it’s talking all day for dignitaries or businessmen, or advising top companies on entering new markets. He makes his own choices, and most of all, he doesn’t let it demand all his attention, like he did in his twenties. He’s learned how to take in work at a pace that makes him happy.

  As for me, I’m still working hard, and hope to for a long time, since I love my job and taking care of my employees. Most of all, I love having the kind of relationship that consumes me at night and brings me peace during the day.

  I suppose it was fate that brought Christian into my life one fine summer day on a boat tour, but it’s not going to be fate that keeps him in it.

  It’s going to be me, loving this man, and giving him my heart all the days of my life.

  ANOTHER EPILOGUE

  Christian

  “I have one final question.”

  “Hit me up with it,” I say as I walk along the avenue with today’s translation client. I expect the Swedish DJ to ask me the fastest route to a new underground club or how to find an out-of-the-way record store.

  “Would you happen to know where the best sweet shop is in Paris?” He cups the side of his mouth as if what he’s sharing is oh-so-secret. “I want to pick up a little gift for the lovely lady.”

  I laugh because do I ever know the answer to that. “Fortunately, I know exactly where to send you.”

  I point him in the direction of Veronica’s nearby shop, and he thanks me, then nabs a taxi.

  He was a fun client, an interesting guy with a toddler back home in Stockholm, and a wife he couldn’t stop talking about. As I shuffled him from meeting to meeting with French music execs, he showed me pictures of the little blond tyke and his equally blonde mum.

  Weirdly, I didn’t mind looking at kid pictures, and that’s never been my thing, per se.

  After I dart to Le Marais for a quick meeting, I’m finished for the day, but I can’t seem to stop thinking about sweets.

  It’s not that I have a sweet tooth. But I do have a wife who loves to shower me with gifts, and thus I like to shower her with them too.

  I head to our neighborhood then stroll through the winding streets of Montmartre as the sun dips low in the sky. I duck into Veronica’s candy shop, ready to nab a small bag of something sweet and tarty for my little mermaid, but I jerk my head back, startled to see someone I know.

  Someone I know quite well.

  My brother.

  He’s tapping his fingers along the counter as he chats animatedly with Veronica, smiling as he tells her some sort of story about a funny incident down by the Seine involving a cyclist, a police officer, and a loaf of bread.

  She laughs from her post at the counter, her eyes twinkling then widening when she spots me.

  She covers her mouth and gives Erik a pointed look.

  He turns to me, startled. “Oh, hiii.”

  “Well, hello,” I say, with a wide grin. “Fancy meeting you here.” I’m curious if the glances exchanged between them at my wedding last month might have turned into a little something more. “Anything interesting happening here?”

  Veronica smiles coyly. Erik shrugs sheepishly.

  “So that’s a yes.” I turn to Veronica. “What do you want me to say when my wife asks how long this has been going on?”

  Veronica pipes in. “We’ve just been talking. We’ve been having a lovely chat.”

  Erik smiles. “I also asked her out to dinner and she said yes.”

  “And I’m going to text Elise any second,” Veronica adds hastily.

  “Good, because I’d be in a world of trouble if I knew and said nothing.”

  “I promise I’ll save you from her inquisition, and even smooth the path with some candy,” Veronica offers with a smile.

  “That’s exactly why I’m here. Can you put together a little bag for her?”

  “Of course.” Moving her tongs across pink, lavender, and periwinkle candies, she assembles a quick gift bag for the woman I love.

  I say good-bye, leaving the two of them behind to continue their flirting, presumably. As I head home, I fervently hope Veronica’s text arrives soon.

  Later that night, I hear the squeal from Elise that tells me I don’t need to keep this little nugget to myself anymore.

  She rushes into the living room, arms flapping, smiling as wide as the sky. “Your brother asked Veronica out, she said yes, and now we can all get together.”

  “Maybe we ought to let them go out on their own before we do a double date?”

  She scoffs. “Please. Ever since our wedding I knew this would happen, and now I want a double date.”

  “I know you do, little mermaid, but don’t you think we should see if this sticks first?”

  “It will. They’re perfect for each other. Plus she’s not a stroppy cow.”

  “She’s not a stroppy cow in the least.”

  One month later, we embark on the double date, since Veronica and Erik have been seeing each other for the last few weeks and it seems to be going well. So well in fact, we make our way to a nightclub in Oberkampf, the four of us laughing and chatting as we walk through the Parisian night.

  Once inside the club though, I lose track of Veronica and Erik because the woman in front of me commands all my attention. My wife captivates me as much as she did when she was my part-time lover. We dance closer, and I slide my body against hers, feeling the heat from her skin. She leans her head back, exposing the gorgeous column of her throat, and I press my mouth to her soft skin then travel up to her ear, nipping the lobe.

  A low moan tells me she’s already starting to let go, to surrender to how we are. This is how I want her. This is how I need her. And later, back at our home, that’s exactly how I have her.

  When we’re finished and sated, I lazily run my fingers down her belly, then I stop. An image of her stomach growing bigger and rounder pops into my head.

  Not sure where it came from.

  Well, I am sure. We just fucked wildly.

  But it’s not as if I spotted a toddler on the street as I walked home. It’s not as if I’ve been thinking about babies. Then again, maybe the idea has been lingering since my DJ client.

  Either way, as I run my hand over her soft flesh I can’t get the idea out of my head. Nor do I want to. It’s not just that she’d look magnificent pregnant. It’s that I want to have a family with her. I want us to be more than two. “What would you say to stopping birth control?” I ask.

  She props herself up on her elbows, fixing me with a serious gaze. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  I grin. “Yes, I’m saying I’d really like to knock you up and raise babies with you.”

  Her lips quiver and her smile stretches. “I’d say let’s get working on this project straightaway.”

  Two months later, over a breakfast of eggs and toast, she hands me a stick with two pink lines. I’m overjoyed, and that feeling is magnified a million times over nine months later when our son is born.

  AND ONE MORE EPILOGUE

  Elise

  A few years later

  At last.

  I have a moment alone to put up my feet and savor the quiet. The boys are outside in the backyard, and I’m away from the crazy day-to-day life of the agency back in Paris—the agency that Polly has been helping me run, now that I’ve become a little busier at home.

  Busier baking.

  Baking people.

  I run a hand over my belly. It’s the second time it’s been this big, and there are a few people who are quite happy about that. Me, of course. My fabulous husband, who’s an even better father. And his mother. She is, quite simply, the perfect grandmother, and she’s convinced us to spend more time here in Copenhagen, so she can dote on her grandchildren.

  I don’t mind being here at all. It’s no hardship to spend time at Christian’s home on the canal, especially during the glorious late summer days when the water gleams like a sapphire, mirroring the powder-blue canvas above us in the sky.

  But right now, I simply need to sit.

  I close my eyes, but the second I do, a little voice calls out to me.

  “Mummy, come look!”

  I sigh but heed the call of my three-year-old son, James. Rising slowly, I head to the sliding glass door and step into the yard.

  The sun is glaring, and the reflection is so bright, I can’t quite make out what Christian and James are doing. But as I shield my eyes with my hand and squint, it becomes patently obvious.

  “I can do handstands just like Daddy.”

  I groan and march down the yard, shaking my head at my husband. “You’re not making him part of that club.”

  Christian holds up his hands ever-so-innocently in a who, me? “Of course not. I’m fully clothed.”

  “Do it with me, Daddy.”

  Christian flips over on the dock, onto his hands like our son. At least this time, both are wearing shorts.

  I smile and relent. After all, maybe the world needs more men who can do handstands, naked or not.

  I run a hand over my belly. “Just don’t teach our daughter to join your club.”

  Christian laughs, flips over, and stands up. He rushes to me and sets a hand on my gigantic basketball. “Good point. No daughter of mine will ever be flashing tourists naked.”

  “She better not.”

  “But you can flash me later.” He winks, and then James runs over and joins us, and I take his little hand. We walk to the dock, sit on the edge, and watch the boats go by.

  Happily.

  THE END

  Don’t miss Oliver’s romance! Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend is a hilarious and sexy best-friends-to-lovers fake fiancé romance that you’ll devour! And it’s free in KU!

  And if you enjoyed Christian and Elise’s delicious romance, you’ll fall head over heels for Daniel and Scarlett! Their sexy, emotionally-charged romance takes place across France as they pretend to be husband and wife in My One-Week Husband FREE IN KU!

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  DEAR SEXY EX-BOYFRIEND

  ABOUT

  Let me just say -- none of this was supposed to happen.

  I didn't expect the letter to go viral. I didn't think anyone would figure out who Dear Sexy Ex was. And I especially never thought he would find out about it.

  Yeah, bit of a miscalculation there.

  But see, I need the money to fund my brand new venture. And Dear Sexy Ex, well, it turns out he needs me to save his business.

  By becoming his fake fiancée.

  Yup, that's the pickle I find myself in -- pretending to be madly in love with the charming, brilliant, and utterly infuriating man known as Dear Sexy Ex.

  Only, it's not an act. And he can never know.

  DEAR SEXY EX-BOYFRIEND

  By Lauren Blakely

  To be the first to find out when all of my upcoming books go live click here!

  PRO TIP: Add lauren@laurenblakely.com to your contacts before signing up to make sure the emails go to your inbox!

  Did you know this book is also available in audio and paperback on all major retailers? Go to my website for links!

  Content Warnings For This Title on my web site.

  PROLOGUE

  Summer

  Dear Past Me,

  In about twenty-four hours, you’re going to have a spectacularly brilliant idea.

  One that will make all the sense in the world at the time because it’ll solve a big, hairy problem. And you love ideas that solve big, hairy problems. Like in sixth grade when you decided to sell origami door-to-door to raise money for the soccer team’s travel. (Who knew there was such a big demand for folded frogs in suburban New York when you were in middle school? You did!)

  Or in eighth grade when you ran for Chief Fun Officer on a platform of two junior proms, the second one including a carnival, because who doesn’t love a carnival?

  But this idea? This outstanding, fantastic idea that’ll make your dreams come true?

  Watch out, Summer.

  You’re going to end up with a soaking wet bridesmaid’s dress, a swan boat incident you’ll never live down, the disappointment of your entire family, plus the crushing heartbreak you’ve sought to avoid for decades, and also . . . a pole.

  Yes, that kind of pole. The kind of pole everybody whispers about when they see it in someone’s basement. A “Do they really do that with that?” pole.

  I wish I could tell you it’ll all work out.

  But, as I stand here now, clutching the wet remains of the dress while figuring out what to do with this pole, I don’t have an earthly clue how any of this will resolve.

  Because of all the harebrained schemes you’ve whipped up, this one doesn’t just take the cake. It bakes it, frosts it, and serves it up in all its three-tiered, royal-icing glory.

  You’ll look back on other cringeworthy moments in your life—like that time you boldly updated your Twitter feed after four martinis, or your shame over the wrong placement of the apostrophe in ladies’ night—and they will pale in comparison.

  It’s worse, even, than when Mom found you practicing volleyball indoors when you were fourteen.

  In the living room.

  And you had to give up all your allowance to pay for the chandelier.

  And the vase.

  And the picture frames too.

  Of all the things that seemed like good ideas at the time, this letter, this contest, this ruse wins the prize.

  So it’s up to you, Past Me, to avoid this jam we’re in now. Because I don’t have a clue what to do from here.

  Sincerely,

  Future You

  1

  SUMMER

  Ten days ago

  I am about to be busted.

  Embarrassingly so. And—I hang my head in shame—deservedly so.

  But, for the record, I don’t regularly check out guys’ packages.

  That’s not my thing. I don’t really think that’s any woman’s thing. I’m pretty sure gawking at the goods doesn’t rank alongside knitting and candle-making in my female friends’ hobbies. Or, at least, not that they’d admit in public.

  Except . . . I am doing it, and I can’t stop.

  It’s just that . . . seriously? Tiny little bathing suits?

  They’re impossible to look away from.

  I literally have no idea how anyone is not supposed to notice a guy’s, ahem, outline when he gets out of a pool wearing only a Speedo.

  How do Olympic diving judges focus on their job, or women across the beaches of Europe focus on anything else? Clearly, that’s why truly sophisticated European women always wear huge designer sunglasses.

  Since you’re supposed to avert your gaze.

  That’s what I’ve tried to do for the last minute.