Her stomach squeezed. “And then what?”
His eyes roamed her face enquiringly.
“When you no longer want to sleep with me? What do we become?”
“What we are now.” His voice was gruff. “Parents. And for Jack, we’ll find a way to make that work.”
It was beyond depressing. She pulled away from him, looking out to Rome. It was so easy for him, easy for him to compartmentalise their physical intimacy from the other facets of their relationship. As though one day in the future, distant or otherwise, they could flick a switch and no longer desire each other in this way. It was fraught with difficulties. She could foresee heartbreak at every turn.
“You have to decide what you want,” he said throatily. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want you to feel as you obviously have been. I want to be clear about what we are, what I want, what I’m offering. And you can decide if it’s also what you want.”
9
HE WATCHED HER PLAYING with Jack across the terrace, a rock in his gut. He’d been so sure, last night, that he was doing the right thing. Clearly spelling out where he was at and what he wanted. He’d been so sure she’d see the sense in what he was proposing and agree to keep things as they were.
Simple. Satisfying. Pleasurable.
She hadn’t.
“I need to sleep. And think.” Her smile had been tightly dismissive. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”
What could he do? He’d put the ball in her court and she was holding on to it. He’d nodded curtly, resisted the impulse to kiss her goodnight – knowing a kiss would inevitably lead to her curling her hands around his neck, pulling his head lower, to her wanting more and him needing more.
So he’d shrugged and smiled and walked from the room, wondering at the sense of misgiving in his belly.
“Count with me,” she smiled at their son, a natural smile that reminded him of the first night they’d met, when she’d laughed so freely. He ran a finger around the top of his glass and pushed the newspaper aside.
“One,” the little boy placed a block on the tiles of the terrace and Elodie nodded encouragingly, taking another block and placing it on top of the first.
“Two,” they said in unison.
Her grin widened. Something in the region of Fiero’s heart opened up.
“Three.” The next block found its place.
“Four.”
He wanted their son to know Italian, too. That would come, surely, being surrounded by Italian speakers, here in Rome. Elodie would need to learn the language too.
The idea had him sitting up a little straighter, the sudden movement drawing Elodie’s quick glance, her eyes resting on his face, a frown tugging at her lips, all of the joy of a moment ago gone.
His gut wrenched.
“Mama?”
She jerked her gaze back to Jack, the smile forced. “Right. Where were we?” She reached for another block and placed it on the top. “Four.”
“No,” she murmured kindly, and pointed to the bottom. “One, two, three, four…”
She watched their son expectantly. Something glinted in his eyes, a dimple scoring deep in one cheek, and he lifted his hand to the middle of the tower of blocks and swiped at them. “Crash,” he grinned, and Elodie laughed, reaching for him and tickling his sides.
“Oh, you are a cheeky monkey, aren’t you, little Master?”
Fiero stood, his ribs feeling as though they were being cracked wide open. Jack was his son. And she, Elodie was…a beautiful mother.
His eyes swept shut; he turned away from them for a moment, uncertainty shifting through him. She’d been here a little over a week, and he’d promised her six months. How the hell was he going to endure this?
All of his calmly laid out plans of the night before evaporated.