“In town as in..?” What was the name of the tiny little village he’d found his way to the middle of?
“Swan on Green, yeah.” She bit down on her lip. “Probably not where you thought your baby would be raised, I guess.”
He didn’t say anything. He sure as hell didn’t tell her that no baby of his would be raised anywhere but his own home.
“Anyway, there’s a little daycare attached to the shopping centre. I’ve been there for four years.”
“You didn’t go to university?”
She shook her head. “No. I… couldn’t.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”
“Just circumstances,” she intimated vaguely. “Family stuff. It’s not important.”
Only it was important to Theo. He couldn’t have said why, but curiosity was storming across him. “So you work at a daycare centre and you help your parents with the pub.”
“That’s me,” she shrugged her shoulders. Shoulders that were slim and fair. Out of nowhere he saw them as they’d been, naked against the bed, a skein of moonlight dancing across her, like it was cutting her in two.
“Boyfriend?”
“No.” She lifted her eyes to his and glanced away.
“I wasn’t your first lover,” he said with misplaced confidence; after all, he was still recollecting the details of that night.
“No, that’s true,” she said with a lift of her shoulders. She’d had precisely two lovers before Theo, and neither of them were really in the same ballpark as him. Before that night, sex had been something two people did when they cared for one another. It was nice. Reassuring. Sweet.
Not mind-blowing, world-changing, life-exploding…
Something like distaste moved across his face. “And, I don’t mean to offend you, but are you absolutely sure…”
“Sure?” She waited for him to finish the sentence but then comprehension dawned and anger flooded through her. “That the baby’s yours?” She clarified, looking away, trying to tell herself that it was a legitimate question. Only pregnancy hormones were shredding her ability to be reasonable and anger was a quick response.
“Before you I hadn’t slept with anyone else in almost a year. So unless this is some kind of miraculous, first-of-its-kind gestation period, yes, Theo; the baby is yours.” She narrowed her eyes, her pulse firing aggressively. “But I don’t expect you to be overjoyed, or even to want anything to do with it, or me. Like I said at the bar, I just didn’t want to be one of those women who hide something as monumental as a baby from a guy. I couldn’t do that. And I wouldn’t do it to Lemon.”
“Lemon?” He lifted his brows, his laugh conveying itself in the single word.
“That’s what it is now,” she said self-consciously. “It’s just this thing I do,” she continued, the words stilted. “Each week I check what size it is. Sometimes though I just call it Bean.” She shrugged. “You’re missing my point. The baby’s yours.”
“I believe you.” The words were graveled. “I just had to ask.”
“I wouldn’t lie about something like this.” She fixed him with a cool, clear gaze. “I’m not out to get anything from you. I don’t want to scam you. I don’t care that you’re you, and I’m me. The differences between us don’t matter. This baby deserves two parents who can work out a way to at least get along. That is, presuming…”
“Okay!” Gianni seemed to have developed a knack for choosing the worst possible time to interrupt and he flexed his gift in that moment, his rotund belly hanging over the table as he slid bread and olives, olive oil and salt towards them. “Eat, eat. I have squid too, and some gnocchi. Just a little.” His grin was kindness itself, and Imogen found herself returning it even though her situation had made spontaneous happiness almost impossible.
“I gather you’re a bit of a celebrity around here?” She imbued the words with disapproval; she couldn’t have said why.
“On the contrary.” He watched as she dipped some focaccia into the olive oil, then sprinkled it with salt. “This is a place I can come to and be treated normally. Gianni doesn’t care what’s in my bank account or portfolio.”
“And you like that,” she murmured, biting down on the bread and closing her eyes as the flavor filled her with pleasure. “Oh, this is good.”
“Bread?”
“Focaccia,” she corrected. “And a truly pungent olive oil.” She caught a droplet of oil that was escaping from the side of her mouth, chasing it back upwards and licking her fingertip. He watched, mesmerized, unable to deny the desire that was rampant in his system.
The details of that night were still foggy, but hell, he would have judged himself for not getting her into his bed. She was impossibly, distractingly sexy.
“You like food?”