Chapter Eight
She had known Aristotle Machairas in his family home, and the context of his mother and father. In that ancient, expansive property, he had been simply a part of it, like a thread of a tapestry, albeit a shimmery gold one that couldn’t fail to catch her eye.
Here, against the glittery backdrop of this clearly exclusive and ritzy restaurant, she realised he was so much more, to so many people.
He was Aristotle Machairas.
Titan of industry.
Powerhouse investor.
Greek god billionaire.
In his late twenties and one of the wealthiest men in the world, mostly through his own guile and genius. He was revered, respected and drooled over by almost everyone in the restaurant—men and women equally. These were his people. This was his life.
And the warm pleasure Rosie had felt that morning evaporated completely, leaving her with a very familiar sense of not belonging. Certainly not with Aristotle.
The dress she’d chosen to wear hid her pregnancy curves, the way her breasts had grown bigger by a size already and her stomach rounded, her hips already seeming to have swelled out, and she’d thought she looked quite nice before leaving the apartment, with her auburn hair brushed and curled loosely and a dash of make-up on her face to add colour.
But here, surrounded by reed-thin women dripping in diamonds and couture, with handbags that probably cost more than she earned in a summer, she felt something she hadn’t really known since her father’s wedding.
That night, she’d sworn she would never again let anyone make her feel less than. Make fun of her. Take away her confidence. Yet here she was, sitting opposite Aristotle with a sense that he should be with any number of the women in this place. Not her.
‘How was your meeting?’ she asked, hardly able to meet his eyes as she reached instead for her mineral water, running a finger down the condensation at the side before lifting the glass to her lips and taking a sip.
Then almost spitting it out when she caught the intensity of his gaze on her mouth.
It felt almost obscene. Even more so when she lifted a finger and wiped at the corner of her lip, where a small droplet of water had landed.
His cheeks slashed with dark colour and beneath the table, he shifted his legs.
Not intentionally to touch her, she was sure, given his determined boundary setting the night before, but nonetheless, his foot brushed against hers, and then his knee hit her knee, and she was ready to weep for how much she wanted him.
Common sense be damned.
‘Aristotle?’ she prompted, when the silence between them had grown thick and the air seemed to crackle with electricity, so she wasn’t sure how either of them could move without getting shocked.
His brow furrowed into a deeper frown. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine?’
‘Are you interested in my work?’
She pulled a face. ‘Would you prefer me not to be?’ After all, they weren’t friends, they weren’t a couple.
He contemplated that, and beneath the table, she fidgeted with her fingers.
‘It’s not something I generally discuss with the women I date. Then again, we’re not dating.’
She ignored the various little darts of pain buried in those sentences.
His casual reference to other women—and of course, there’d been many.
His quick reminder that this wasn’t a date.
If anything, it was another business meeting.
Thinking of it in that context would be helpful for Rosie.
She had to ignore the buzzing and crackling she felt and focus on the conversation they needed to have.
Because he was right. There was so much to discuss.
‘That’s fine,’ she said, ignoring the flicker of curiosity inside of her, because she really did want to know how it had gone, and what he was working on with the King.
But boundaries were important, and would protect both of them.
‘I was just making conversation. It’s better to stick to our own business. ’
Despite her best efforts, she knew her voice emerged strained.
Hurt. She wasn’t as good at covering that as she’d have liked, but so what?
She doubted Aristotle noticed. A moment later, a waiter appeared to take their order, giving her vital minutes to compose herself as she quickly scanned the menu and selected a moussaka with twice baked potatoes on the side.
‘I’m hungry,’ she explained, cheeks flushing as she tried not to imagine the sort of food his dates usually ordered.
He only nodded distractedly, then templed his fingers beneath his chin, regarding her thoughtfully.
‘Let’s talk about our marriage,’ he said. Simply. Easily. As though they were discussing the public transport system, or travel plans.
She nodded though, taking another sip of her mineral water.
‘I think we should establish some ground rules around our relationship.’
She arched a brow. ‘What relationship?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You don’t like me,’ she said, lifting one shoulder, ignoring the dull pain in the middle of her chest. ‘You never have.’
He leaned back in his chair a little, those dark eyes resting on her face in a way she found disconcerting. ‘I barely know you.’
She glanced down at the table, swallowing. Strangely, she couldn’t say the same. ‘It’s funny, I feel like I know you, even though we haven’t spent much time together. Your parents always talked about you.’
She felt him stiffen. It was impossible. They weren’t touching, and yet the air around them seemed to change, to grow thick and heavy all of a sudden.
‘They talked about you, too,’ he said finally, a reserve in his voice that she didn’t understand. Was it her relationship with his parents? Or the fact they’d spoken about her? ‘My mother said she’d never known anyone quite so curious as you.’
‘Curious?’ she repeated, shaking her head.
‘Asking questions. Exploring. Wanting to understand everything about the world.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘They were always so good to me.’
She glanced up at him, felt the heat in his gaze and looked away quickly.
The restaurant was busy, and the conversations of the other diners formed a background hum that should have been relaxing.
It wasn’t. Or maybe that was sitting across from Aristotle like this.
Rosie was aware, the entire time, of the stretching of her nerves like fine wires being pulled impossibly taut, so she found it hard to think of anything other than the fact she could shift her legs beneath the table and brush against him once more.
‘In terms of our marriage,’ he said, tone businesslike. ‘We should see it more as a partnership.’
Her stomach clenched.
‘A business arrangement,’ he clarified. ‘With defined boundaries and expectations. Our shared interest is our child. We’ll work as a team to make sure he or she has the best possible life.’
It all sounded so reasonable, but in the back of her mind she couldn’t help but see wrinkles in this very sterile imagining of a marriage.
‘How will it work?’ she asked, looking for reassurance, so she could share his sense of confidence.
‘The more professional we keep it, the better,’ he said. ‘Obviously, in certain situations, there’ll be an element of make-believe—’
‘Like when we’re with my dad and your mother.’
He dipped his head in silent agreement.
‘And what about when we’re with our child?’
‘I don’t understand.’
She compressed her lips, fingers twisting in the fabric of the tablecloth, where it draped against her knees. ‘Well, don’t you think our son or daughter will think it’s strange that we’re married, but not a couple?’
‘Children accept whatever reality they’re presented with.’
That was true.
‘We will not be unhappy, Rosemary. Our child will grow up in a calm household, with two parents who take care of them, and look after their best interests.’
She bit into her lip. More sterile, bland descriptors. She couldn’t help but wonder what was beneath the surface of that. ‘What was your childhood like?’
‘Is that relevant?’ That same stiffness was back in his voice, reminding her forcibly of the closing of a drawbridge.
‘Yes.’
He kept his expression neutral, silently waiting for her to elaborate.
‘We’re going to be raising a child together,’ she said on a half laugh. ‘I think our own experiences are deeply relevant—they shape the kind of parents we’ll be.’
‘You saw my childhood.’
‘You were grown-up by the time I started coming to Greece.’
‘But it was much like you experienced,’ he said, slightly exasperated. ‘I had the run of the estate, time and freedom to explore. I was less interested in history,’ he added unnecessarily. ‘For me, it was more about hiking.’
‘Hiking?’
‘I’d walk for hours. Down the hill, towards the city, picking my way through the wooded area of the property.’
‘You went to school in Athens?’
He nodded once.
‘And that’s where you’d want our child to attend?’
There was a reserve in his face then, a flick of his lips. ‘My preference would be the opposite.’
‘You didn’t like it?’
‘I think we have to take care to choose a school with peers who are not so entitled as my cohort was.’
It reminded her swiftly of the friends who’d come to the wedding, who’d treated her so awfully.
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘You’re right. So then, how do we decide that sort of thing?’
‘As I said, we’re a partnership. We talk it through, weigh up options, and so long as we keep our child’s best interests front and centre, and let that guide us, we’ll make good choices.’
He was so confident that this could be a calm, dispassionate arrangement, that sitting here across from him she almost forgot the elephant in the room. Then he shifted so his foot accidentally brushed her calf, and flames ignited once more, threatening to torch the whole damn world.