She nodded. That was true. All the more reason to keep her distance and remember that what happened between them was a total aberration.
“Good. I’ll pick up the paint after work next week.”
“No need. I have a decorator. He’ll arrange the tradesmen. Just give him a list of anything else you want. Light fittings. Carpets. Drapes.” He shrugged. “The furniture selection I had imagined we’d do together.”
She looked up at him, utterly bewildered now. “Furniture selection?”
“You know. Crib. Chair. Change table. All the stuff.”
“Right.” She nodded, only she’d hardly thought of that. “We’ve still got ages, though.”
“True.” Something charged between them; an awareness that sent her pulse firing. “Are you hungry?”
Hungry? She was starving. But food was pretty low down on the priority list. “I guess so.”
“Good. Let’s go out. Gianni’s?”
Imogen wanted to refuse. To think up a reason to say ‘no’. But their lives flashed before her. The life that saw them co-parenting a child. Surely eating out wasn’t a big deal? People did it all the time. Friends. Colleagues. Family.
It didn’t mean anything. It was a low-risk activity; wasn’t it?
“Okay. Just give me ten minutes to get ready.”
Imogen was fifteen minutes, in the end. She changed into a pair of stretchy black pants and an over-sized shirt with beading around the neckline and teamed it with sparkly ballet slippers and a jeweled necklace. She left her hair out, telling herself it had nothing to do with the way he liked to run his fingers through it, nor the way he’d told her, the night they’d made love, that it shone like strands of gold and sunshine.
When she stepped into the kitchen, he was slowly flipping through a newspaper, his head bent. But he looked up at the sound of her approach and the air crackled with barely-contained awareness. He didn’t try to hide his slow, sensual appraisal. His eyes dipped down, focusing on the swell of her cleavage and her neat waist before dropping to the floor and lifting once more to her face.
Her heart was in her mouth, hammering with an understanding she didn’t think she’d ever be able to contain.
“Ready?” She asked throatily, her fingers toying with the hem of her shirt self-consciously.
“As I’ll ever be.” He shut the paper and walked around the bench, towards her. When he reached her side, he said gently, “You look beautiful.”
Muddied waters threatened to devour her. “Thank you.” So prim, once more.
Kissing like they had a week earlier – well, that had been a rather predictable mistake. The night they’d made love had been fuelled by a primal, animalistic passion. Theo was fortunate he didn’t remember just how damned good it had been between them. It was only Imogen who was tormented by the memories and the impossibility of proximity. Having Theo so close she could reach for him at any time, knowing that she couldn’t and wouldn’t, was a unique brand of torture.
It was good that the kiss had happened, Imogen supposed, if only to give them some ground rules to stick to. Some clearly defined parameters of what each wanted from the other. And what they couldn’t have.
Because they were going to be parents, and that was complicated enough. Throwing sex into the mix? Definitely a bad idea. Only riding the lift beside him, riding in his car, all she could think about was the night they’d made love. The way it had felt. The fact she’d needed more; so much more.
The night stretched before her, long and impossible to navigate, for the throbbing ache deep inside of her.
When they arrived at the restaurant, Gianni stood out the front, greeting them with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. His rotund belly wobbled up and down as he laughed his happy greeting.
“Eh, Signorina! Two nights in the same month? Must be amore,” he laughed louder, as though it was all a joke, when Imogen was staggering through the reality of this predicament, trying to find her way when perhaps there wasn’t any way at all.
Theo reached out and shook his hand, and the other he put protectively around Imogen. It was amazing how normal that felt – to reach out and draw her closer to him.
She, apparently, didn’t feel the same, if the way her body went ramrod straight against him was any indication.
“You remember Imogen?” He asked.
Imogen smiled up at the Italian man but every other part of her was focusing on not bending her body closer to Theo’s. On not collapsing against him, molding her shape to his, letting their close touch fill her with the satisfaction she’d denied herself again and again.
“Of course. Beautiful Imogen.” He said her name with an accented lilt. “Come in, come in.”