Imogen sucked in a breath, her eyes knitting together. “You’re actually seeking compliments now?”
His laugh was a hoarse expulsion. “Hardly. I think I’d drunk enough scotch to sedate an Ox. I have no doubt I underperformed.” His wink sent a kaleidoscope of butterflies spiraling through her gut. “I’m sorry about that.”
Imogen pulled a face. “If that was you underperforming, I’d really hate to see you bring you’re A-game,” she admitted, her cheeks flushed pink as she realized what she’d just said. “I mean, you know. It was good. Fine.” She groaned. “I’ll shut up now.”
“Don’t.” He reached out and lifted a hand, as though to touch her cheek, then apparently thought better of it. “Don’t ever apologise for telling a man you thought he was good in bed.”
“Let’s just say that you made more of an impression on me than I did on you,” she said with a half-smile that hid her pain.
“That isn’t a reflection on you,” he promised, but he could see she felt it was. That she was offended. And for some reason that sat poorly around his shoulders. “After Marie and I broke up publically, we saw each other for a little longer. I suppose trying to resurrect the ghost of what we were.” He winced. “An exercise in futility, all things considered. We’d ended it for good about two weeks before I met you. I would say that I wasn’t completely myself.”
“I’m sorry,” Imogen said truthfully, mentally calculating the fact that he’d only been single for around four months, if that. “The timing is awful.”
“No, it’s not. Discovering I’m going to be a father is not something I could ever call awful, irrespective of timing.”
“Or who the mother is?”
His laugh was soft. “I think I might have got lucky there.”
*
“Ummm… This place is huge.” She stared at him in bewilderment before returning her focus to the penthouse apartment. A vision of glass, steel, modernity and taste, it was like a living art piece. “This is where you live?”
“Yeah.” He flicked a switch and the lights to her right illuminated, drawing her attention to a long, wide hallway. On one side there was complete glass, showing the twinkling lights of London. She took a step towards it and then froze, spinning back to him accusingly.
“I can’t live here.”
His laugh was a rumble. “Why not?”
“Because it’s like a damned museum, that’s why not. I’d spend the whole time worried I’d break something.”
He shook his head, amusement crinkling his eyes. “So we’ll childproof a little earlier,” he grinned.
“Oh, God.” This was really happening. They were going to have a baby together. Her, him, the man who didn’t remember her. The man she was hopelessly attracted to.
“There are eight bedrooms in total --,”
“Eight?” A squeak of disbelief, louder than she’d intended. “Did you say eight?”
He shrugged. “I entertain a lot. You’ll need four…”
“Four?” She repeated, shaking her head.
“One for you, one for the baby, one for the nanny, and one for a playroom.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” She pressed a hand to his chest in an unplanned gesture of desperation. “I need a second.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know if I want a nanny.”
“Okay, we can talk about that. At least initially, we could consider it.” Seeing the look of panic on her features he backed off. “That’s your call though.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad to hear some of this is going to be up to me.”
“I don’t want to take over,” he said seriously, putting a hand in the small of her back and guiding her deeper into the lounge area. “I want to take pressure off you. To make this easier on you.”
“Then please, don’t talk about nannies and playrooms just yet,” she begged plaintively.