“Must I?” His eyes skimmed over hers. “Why is that?”
“Just … to have everything you want but with the wrong person.”
“That’s not how I see it.” He reached over and squeezed Imogen’s leg. “Not how I see it at all.”
“Really? She apparently disagrees, if your eau de pinot gris is anything to go by.”
“I believe it was Sancerre, actually.” He grinned but Imogen’s face was taut and he immediately sought to assuage her worries. “You don’t need to feel threatened by Marie. Our marriage is over. And for good reason.” He laced his fingers through hers and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing them gently. “And I’m over the moon we’re having this baby together.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“RAPUNZEL,” HE HAZARDED, earning another shake of Imogen’s head.
“No! Awful! I hope it’s not a girl, with the names you’re coming up with. Besides, if it’s anything like I was, it won’t have hair for at least three years so that’s just being unnecessarily cruel, really.”
He smirked, reaching for another piece of pizza. “You would have been a cute, bald little kid though.”
She grinned, nudging him with her shoulder.
“Esmerelda.”
“Did you get this baby name book from the Hans Christen Anderson universe?” Imogen giggled.
“I swear, they’re in here.” He held the book up for a second, flashing the black and white page to her, before dropping it back into his lap.
She reached for it but he laughed, holding it higher. “I’m telling you, these are real names.”
“Yeah, about as real as Tonka Truck.” She bit down on her lip, eyeing off the uneaten half of the pizza.
“Tonka. I like it. Tonka Trevalyen.”
Imogen pushed a hand against his chest. “Nooo.”
“So what do you want then?”
“Not Tonka.” She leaned forward, grabbing a slice of pizza and looping some of the runny cheese over her finger thoughtfully.
“Where does your name come from?”
“My parents?” She joked, willfully misunderstanding.
He rolled his eyes. “I mean, what’s the history? Is it a family name?”
“It’s Shakesepearean,” she said. “My mum loves Shakespeare so I guess I should be grateful I’m not Volumnia or Gonerol.”
His laugh made her heart turn over in her chest. “Or Gertrude?”
“Gertrude? Now, there’s an idea,” she said, ticking her finger on the side of her mouth, her eyes crinkling at the corner showing that she was joking.
“Gertrude Tonka Trevalyen. We’re done.”
“We sure are,” Imogen shook her head. “Name the baby that and we’ll have Child Protective Services coming to ‘congratulate’ us.”
“Maybe not then.”
Imogen bit down into the pointed end of the pizza, chewing it slowly.
“So your mum’s a Shakespeare buff, huh?”