“Me?” he chuckles. “You’re the one who stuck it there.”

“Yes, but you are the reason why,” I laugh. “Tell them how sweet you are,” I say, returning my attention to my phone while Logan fills his parents in on his grand romantic gesture. After I find a charming image of my mom and I, I look up just in time to see Rupert and Mary-Gene’s startled expressions. Deer in headlights. Yup, that’s how I must’ve looked when Logan told me.

“You don’t do things by halves, do you, son?” Rupert utters.

“It’s not in my nature,” Logan grins.

* * *

A short while later the elevator pings, delivering Buddy to the penthouse and we all hurry inside to greet him.

Like Logan, Buddy is still in his work clothes, but I suspect that his reasons for being so are quite different to Logan’s. He’s holding a small child, maybe two or three years old, in one arm and a baby bag in the other. He dumps the latter by the elevator door, as he bounds forward to embrace Mary-Gene.

“MG,” he smiles, hugging her tightly, before naturally handing the smiley toddler over to her. She goes all gooey-eyes over him immediately. Then Buddy shakes Rupert’s hand, kisses me on each cheek — very French — and he greets Logan by patting him on the backside like men in sports teams do. “‘Sup?” he says to his best friend. Then he asks Mary-Gene and Rupert, “How are my favourite seventy year olds?”

“Peachy, kid,” Rupert tells him and Mary-Gene nods in agreement.

“You’re looking well, have you finally settled down?” she asks him, assuming his apparent health to be caused by a woman.

Buddy rolls his eyes. “Women are the bane of my life,” he tells her.

“Speaking of…how is that little problem of yours?” Logan asks him, trying not to laugh.

“Please tell me that you do not have another infection, Buddy,” Mary-Gene scolds.

“No, Ma’am. Clean as a whistle,” he says proudly.

“Uh, could someone explain the baby…” I pipe up.

“This is Noah. My son,” Buddy explains, while Logan looks at me in surprise, evidently having thought that I already knew that.

“You have a son?” I exclaim. I study the toddler; he’s got a thick head of dark hair, plump, squeezable cheeks, an adorable toothy smile, and a stylish green outfit on.

“But…but he’s so cute, how can he be yours?” I tease Buddy and make everyone else laugh. “Who’s his mom? Is she in the industry, do I know her?” I berate him with questions before a sudden notion occurs to me. “Oh my god! Is he Amélie’s?”

This time Buddy laughs. “Not in a million fucking years. You won’t know his mom. Three years ago I referred to her as the girl in the red dress,” he tells me.

“Charming, dear,” Mary-Gene looks reproving.

“Now I call her Olivia. She’s a dancer.”

“Of the exotic kind?” I assume.

“Do I strike you as that kind of man?” Buddy asks me.

“Yes,” I say immediately. “You cruise for hookups during your lunch break,” I remind him, while everyone chuckles again.

“Oh, you’re good,” Mary-Gene beams at me. “A straight talker; I like that.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to dash your assumptions of me, Gem. Olivia works with the Paris Opera Ballet,” he informs me.

Jeez, they’re the oldest ballet company in the world! She must be good, I note.

“Speaking of dancing,” Buddy continues, “tomorrow night I will be your chaperone to the Moulin Rouge,” he says to his pseudo-parents. “That is to say I will be escorting you there, but I cannot confirm that I will be leaving with you, if you know what I mean,” he winks at Rupert. “Now, there was something else that I had to tell you guys,” he thinks for a moment. “Oh, yes!” His face lights up in mischief. “I’ve been waiting to tell you that I caught Logan and Gemima having sex on that sofa,” he points to the offending sofa, “so stay well clear.”

I choke on air; I actually choke on thin air. Buddy, you shit! “That is not—” I splutter.

Buddy starts silently laughing, he’s gotten exactly what he wanted: me, flustered. I give him a prepare-to-die look which results in him laughing even more.

“Not true,” Logan finishes for me, looking cool, calm and collected.

“So not true!” I impress.

“Don’t worry,” Rupert says to me, “we take everything that he says with a grain of salt. Especially after he told us that he was going to marry this one’s mother,” he says, taking ahold of Noah’s hand and going all coochey-coo.

“I’ve never seen Buddy so pale as when he told me he was going to be a father,” Logan reminisces with a laugh. “He asked me to come over and he just sat on the couch, speechless,” he tells me. “He didn’t say a thing except, I’ve just come back from the doctor. I thought he was fucking dying!”

“I also thought a part of me would die,” Buddy says dramatically. “I thought my love-life was over, but it turns out that Noah is the best wingman I could have ever asked for. The amount of numbers that he’s gotten me is staggering.”

“You do know it’s not a competition, don’t you, Bud?” Rupert asks him.

“He’s a quintessential man-whore,” Mary-Gene tells her husband, giving Buddy a new nickname.

And with that comment, we seem to naturally separate, Logan and I finishing up dinner, while the others wander outside, catching up.

As I stand at the stove, I can feel Logan’s gaze on me. I know those pale-green eyes of his are adoring me, and sure enough, when I turn to look at him, he’s wearing a broad, dimple-inducing smile. He looks so sexy, so alluring, so in love. The sight of him distracts me completely.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I grin at him. “Otherwise I’ll drag you into your dressing room for a repeat of what we did before your parents arrived,” I threaten.

Logan raises his eyebrows at me. “That’s hardly an incentive for me to stop looking at you like this.”

True, I think. I stare at him, feeling fully affected by his strong presence, and a part of me wants very much to enact my threat. I shake my head at my own lustful thoughts. No, Gem, not while his parents are here. Logan continues to gaze at me.

“What’s got you so ecstatic?” I ask him.

“You, Gemima. Everything about you — the terrace; my parents love you, like I knew they would; the way you are with Buddy. Everything about you has got me ecstatic.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Leary,” I smile.

“Good, baby. Maybe later I can flatten you. On the bed,” he laughs, and my eyes grow wide at his pun.

“That sounds like something I would say!”

“You must be rubbing off on me,” he says, before we both laugh.

I say the obvious. “Maybe later, I will.”

* * *

The next hour passes in a flurry of food, good conversation, and lots of laughter.

When it’s time for cake, we migrate inside.

Buddy puts Noah to sleep on the sofa in the man’s den, where he won’t be woken by us talking. In the living room, whether consciously or not, I can’t help noticing that Buddy and Logan’s parents choose not to sit on the sex-sofa, leaving it free for Logan and I to snuggle up on, while the cake and a third bottle of wine sits on the coffee table in the centre of us all. Neither Logan nor I elected to tell Buddy that the chair he sat in over dinner outside was the one we had our fun in earlier this evening. Serves him right, I think cheekily.

I’m feeling wholly relaxed and relieved with how smoothly things have gone tonight. I come to the conclusion that, despite Buddy’s efforts to verbally trip me up, it’s impossible to feel uncomfortable around Rupert and Mary-Gene. They’re so open and accepting, so chatty and engaging, that every moment is filled with words, and each passing minute I learn more about Logan’s family and his life before me.