Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMMA
T he next morning, I stood on Charlie’s doorstep, my oversized suitcase at my feet, feeling like I’d stepped into an alternate reality. How had my life taken such a sharp turn? One minute, I was planning other people’s happily-ever-afters, and the next, I was pregnant and about to move in with a virtual stranger.
My finger hovered over the doorbell. I could still turn back, hop in a cab, and catch the next flight back to New York. But then what? Go back to my tiny apartment, with no job and a baby on the way?
“You’ve faced down bridezillas with spray tans gone wrong,” I muttered to myself. “You can handle this.”
Before I could think it through, I pressed the bell. The chime echoed through the house, my heart pounding in sync with it. Footsteps approached, and then the door swung open, revealing Charlie in all his casual, California glory.
Did the man ever have a bad hair day? As if his perpetually perfect locks weren’t enough, he’d grown a beard since New York. The neatly trimmed facial hair accentuated his strong jawline, making him look somehow more rugged and refined at the same time. My fingers twitched and I fought the urge to reach out and run them through it.
Like it wasn’t too much to ask that he got knocked down a couple of steps on the handsome ladder, right? Instead, he’d gone and climbed a few rungs higher. The beard was just unfair — a devastating addition to his already unfairly attractive appearance.
“Emma!” His face lit up with a smile that made my insides do a little flip. “Come in, come in.”
He reached for my suitcase, but I held onto it. “I’ve got it, thanks.”
His eyes widened as he took in my single piece of luggage. Who cared about the luggage, right? I didn’t. Yet I fought him on it.
“Come on.” With a gentle but firm movement, he took my suitcase despite my protests. “Let’s get you settled in.”
I followed him up a sweeping staircase, trying not to gawk at the opulent surroundings. The house wasn’t over the top or gaudy, but it was a far cry from my cosy New York apartment, all sleek lines and modern art. It was beautiful, but it didn’t feel like a home. At least, not yet.
A knot formed in my stomach. How could I ever fit into this world? Charlie led me to a door at the end of the hallway.
“This will be your room,” he said, pushing it open.
I stepped inside and my jaw dropped.
“Is this good enough?” he asked, his tone almost uncertain.
“You can’t be serious.” I turned to him, incredulous. “It’s bigger than my whole apartment in New York. Are you sure this isn’t your room?”
He shrugged, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. “Well, it was. But I figured you’d be more comfortable here. It has its own en-suite and everything.”
“I can’t take your room.”
“Of course you can.”
I glanced around, taking in the dark, masculine colour palette. “I appreciate it, but?—”
The reality of the situation hit me anew, leaving me momentarily breathless.
“Emma? You okay?”
I nodded, blinking back the tears that burned the back of my eyes. “I’m fine. It’s just... a lot to take in, you know?”
“I know. But it’ll all be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”
I managed a smile, touched by his reassurance. “Okay.”
A s the day wore on, I unpacked my meagre belongings and tried to settle into my new surroundings. The house was quiet, almost too quiet compared to the constant bustle of New York. As ridiculous as it sounded, I missed the honking horns and distant sirens that had been the soundtrack to my life for so long.
Despite the drastic change in scenery, some things remained frustratingly constant. Like clockwork, the now-familiar wave of nausea hit me, sending me scrambling for the en-suite bathroom.
As I knelt over the pristine toilet, retching, I couldn’t help but feel out of place. The marble floors and gleaming fixtures seemed too perfect.
Wiping my mouth, I eyed the plush towels hanging nearby.
What if I ruin it?
The irrational worry nagged at me as I rinsed my mouth. It was just a towel, but in this house, everything felt valuable, breakable. I settled for patting my face dry with some tissue, vowing to ask Charlie about designated throwing up towels later. By evening, hunger finally drove me from the sanctuary of my new room. I padded downstairs, following my nose to the kitchen. To my surprise, I found Charlie bent over the stove, a look of intense concentration on his face.
The nausea hit me almost instantly. The smell of cooking chicken, usually appetising, now turned my stomach. I swallowed hard.
He looked up, a grin spreading across his face. “Perfect timing. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I forced a smile, silently praying I could keep it together. The baby, it seemed, had other ideas.
I tried to focus on my surroundings and ignore the bubbling in my stomach. Charlie Delacroix was cooking me dinner. And not just heating up a frozen pizza, but actually cooking what appeared to be a proper meal. I almost rubbed my eyes, the sight before me was so strange.
“You cook?”
He chuckled. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m a man of many talents.”
The aroma wafting from the pans made my stomach growl audibly. His grin widened.
“Hungry?”
I nodded, a bit embarrassed. “Starving, actually. What are you making?” The words left my mouth automatically, even as my stomach churned.
I eyed the chicken warily, knowing I’d struggle to eat it. The baby’s needs came first, but how could I explain this without hurting Charlie’s feelings?
“Grilled chicken with quinoa and steamed non-starchy vegetables.” Something started smoking and he hastily removed the pot from the burner before turning the whole thing off. “All approved by the dietitian.”
I froze. “The what now?”
He’d started pulling pans from the oven, but stopped long enough to throw me a sheepish look over his shoulder. “Oh, uh, I hired a dietitian. To help with meal planning, you know? For the pregnancy.”
I stared at him, speechless. He’d hired a dietitian. For me. The thoughtfulness of the gesture overwhelmed me, and tears pricked my eyes.
When had he even had the time?
“Emma?” Charlie’s voice was soft, concerned. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, furiously blinking back tears. “It’s really sweet of you to put in so much effort. You didn’t have to.”
“I just want to make sure you and the baby are taken care of.” He shrugged, his back turned as he plated up the food. “It’s no big deal.”
But it was a big deal.
“Thank you,” I said softly, meaning it with every fibre of my being.
He turned and our gazes clashed again. This time the air between us crackled with an unnamed energy. Then he smiled, breaking the spell.
“You’re welcome. Now, how about you set the table while I finish up here?”
Grateful for something to do, I busied myself with plates and cutlery, trying to ignore the warmth blooming in my chest. I couldn’t let myself get carried away by a few kind gestures.
But I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, this could work out after all.
T he next morning, I woke disoriented, the unfamiliar surroundings and the strength of sunlight streaming through the windows throwing me off. Then it all came rushing back — the pregnancy, the move, Charlie.
I stretched, relishing the feel of the luxurious sheets against my skin. Despite my initial reservations, I had to admit the bed was incredibly comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. A glance at the clock told me it was nearly ten — I’d slept far later than usual.
So much for being a responsible adult.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I’d missed my usual breakfast time, something the pile of pamphlets had agreed was a bad idea. I climbed out of bed, my legs a little shaky. I ran a hand through my tangled hair and took a deep breath while I adjusted to the feeling of my blood sugar being low. At some point, I’d probably take this new hyperawareness of my body for granted, but for now, it was a weird sensation.
I opened the door, conceding that I probably looked a mess and stepped into the hallway.
Surely Charlie’s seen worse.
I promptly collided with a wall of warm, damp skin.
“Whoa!” Hands shot out, steadying me before I could stumble. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
I glanced up, ready to apologise, but the words died in my throat.
Wow, that’s a lot of skin.
Charlie stood before me, wearing nothing more than a towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets clung to his chest, tracing tantalising paths down his abs. His hair was damp and tousled, giving him a boyish charm that contrasted sharply with his very adult body.
Holy mother of...
A familiar pull of attraction tugged at me, quickly followed by a wave of panic.
“Emma?” His voice broke through my hormone-induced haze. Amusement creased his brow. “You have got to stop doing this to me, darling. I’ll go grey before the baby even kicks.”
I blinked and tore my gaze away from the expanse of bare skin.
“Fine!” My voice came out as a squeak and heat rushed to my cheeks as I took a hasty step back. I cleared my throat, willing my sex-starved hormones to chill the fuck out. “I’m fine. Just, uh, still waking up.”
He grinned, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort. Or the fact that he was practically naked. “No worries. I was just about to start breakfast. Pancakes and fruit sound good?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My eyes betrayed me, drifting down to where the towel sat precariously on his hips.
“Great!” he said, running a hand through his damp brown hair. The movement caused his muscles to ripple in a way that made my mouth go dry. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a few.”
“Sure,” I managed to croak out. “I’ll just... go... down…”
I turned and fled down the stairs, my heart pounding. What was wrong with me? I was acting like a teenager with a crush, not a grown woman about to have a baby.
In the kitchen, I splashed cold water on my face, trying to regain my composure. This was ridiculous. So what if Charlie was attractive? Lots of people were attractive. It didn’t mean anything.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.