Chapter Eight #2
His pragmatic approach to this marriage lasted three days.
He was able to exist in his suite of rooms at the penthouse, conscious that Rosemary was upstairs in her own suite, but not altering his day-to-day life to factor her in.
Though there were signs of her occupancy in the shared spaces—herbal tea bags and pregnancy multivitamins were lined up on the kitchen counter.
Some brightly coloured cushions had found their way into the starkly monochromatic living room, and there was a well-thumbed paperback novel on an occasional table.
The grand piano that had come with the penthouse had been played, going by the lifted lid.
He moved to it and pressed a key, closing his eyes as the dark, deep note hit him, like a sledgehammer.
He hadn’t stopped to think since he’d learned of her pregnancy.
He’d acted purely on instinct, knowing that he would move heaven and earth to claim his child. To make the sort of choices that would lead his baby to grow up knowing they were wanted. Unlike Aristotle had felt because of his birth parents’ rejection.
He pressed the key again, harder this time.
The marriage contracts were ready to be signed. His lawyers had drafted a thorough agreement, covering every contingency. From divorce to his death, to dispute resolution within their marriage, to their decision-making process for things such as education and health. It was balanced and fair.
Practical.
Just as their marriage would be.
He pressed the key again, ignoring the memories that were swirling through him. The feel of her soft, petal-like skin. The taste of her mouth. The sounds she made when he kissed her.
But the memories were too strong, swirling fiercely, so he smothered a groan as he stepped away from the piano and moved back to the table, where he’d placed the paperwork upon arriving home.
He’d get Rosemary to sign these tonight. It would be a powerful reminder—that he suddenly seemed to desperately need—that this was just like any other business deal.
‘Christós—what in God’s name do you think you are doing?’
His voice was a growl that seemed to bounce around the walls of the soon-to-be-nursery.
She gripped the top of the ladder before turning to face him, ignoring the way her protective mask made her nose itch.
Hating the way her body responded to his instantly.
But it had been three days, and she hadn’t seen nor heard him.
He worked long hours, she gathered, and by the time she went to the kitchen to make toast and coffee in the mornings, he was usually gone.
As for the nights, she had been spending a lot of time not thinking about where he was, who he was with, because none of that was her business.
‘What do you mean?’
He walked quickly towards her, hands gripping the bottom of the ladder. ‘Why the hell are you up a ladder?’
She stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. ‘Well, I couldn’t think of another way to reach the top,’ she explained. ‘Do you like the colour?’
He didn’t take his eyes off her. His expression was furious. ‘Get down, now.’
Her jaw dropped, making the mask itch more. ‘Why are you shouting at me?’
‘Because you’re pregnant with my baby and you’re perilously high up a ladder, painting some wall that I would have had painted for you.’
Irritation made her snappy, but she bit back her first response, instead, doing as he’d commanded and gradually coming down from the ladder, paintbrush held between her finger and thumb.
At the bottom of the steps, she placed it on the paint can lid, then brushed her hands over her old jeans—they still fitted, so long as she didn’t attempt to marry the button to its hole.
‘I’m pregnant with our baby,’ she said, when she could trust her voice to emerge calmly. ‘And I’m more than capable of climbing a ladder.’
‘I organised a decorator,’ he said, shaking his head.
A shiver ran down Rosie’s spine. The decorator had been a fabulously elegant woman in her twenties, who was no doubt very good at her job.
She was also cut from the exact same cloth as his ‘friends’ had been.
Entitled, arrogant, condescending. She’d taken one look at Rosie and sneered her way through the meeting.
‘I decided to do it myself.’ She shrugged, removing her mask and dropping it to the ground.
It was a precaution she hadn’t needed to take, strictly speaking.
The guy at the hardware store had assured her the paint was non-toxic, but it was proof of how seriously she was taking their baby’s safety. ‘I need a project.’
‘You are not to climb that ladder again.’
She glared at him, anger sparking in her chest. Or perhaps it was repressed need, because it had been three days without an Aristotle sighting, and now her body was exploding with the force of their chemistry. Why was it like this between them?
‘You are not to tell me what to do,’ she returned, jabbing her finger into his chest for good measure.
His nostrils flared as he expelled an angry breath. ‘You are so unreasonable.’
‘Hello, pot, kettle, black. You literally just stormed in here and started shouting at me. But I’m the unreasonable one?’
‘You can’t be surprised I’m annoyed.’
‘You have no reason—no, no right—to be annoyed at me. I’m not your property. I’m not your employee. You don’t get to control me.’
He held up a stack of paper. ‘This gives me the right.’
She blanched.
‘Not to control you,’ he contradicted, shaking his head angrily. ‘But to demand you behave reasonably.’
‘Do you hear yourself?’ She jammed a hand onto her hips, glaring up at him. ‘What the hell, Aristotle?’
‘What? I’m not allowed to feel protective of our baby?’
Her hand pressed to her stomach, and despite his macho bullshit she couldn’t help but feel a weird heartwarming at that. ‘Our baby’. She wasn’t alone in this, and the love she felt for this little person was shared completely by the man opposite her.
‘You don’t need to protect our baby from me.’
‘You are not to climb that ladder again.’
She gestured to the wall, which was half painted. ‘Well, I’m not leaving it like this, sooo…’
‘I’ll do it.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I like painting. I’m enjoying myself. I’ve been doing this for three days, you know,’ she said.
Aristotle’s expression shifted and then he turned on his heel and stalked from the room. She followed him, wondering if he was actually walking away from her. But no.
He went to the spare room first, shaking his head and smothering what she suspected was a curse as he took in the pale lemon colour she’d painted the walls, to complement the creamy white office furniture she’d bought.
Rather than using the space for a nanny, she’d set it up as a workspace.
With a single disapproving glance in her direction, he moved back out of the door and into her bedroom.
The breath hissed out of his lungs as he did a slow pivot, eyes tracing all the changes. She’d been busy, but she’d had to be.
Pregnancy had made her restless, and though she was still months from giving birth, those nesting instincts were strong.
There was no way she could ‘nest’ in the sterile environment it had been.
The walls in here were a deep, dark pink, luxurious and feminine, and she’d chosen a sumptuous floral duvet set and accessorized it with fluffy cream cushions.
She’d bought a moss-green chair—velvet, with rockers—for the corner, keeping in mind the inevitable future of late-night feeds of their baby.
He turned to face her, lips compressed. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His expression was dark, though. ‘You did this yourself?’
‘I had the furniture delivered,’ she said.
‘But the painting?’
She nodded. ‘And lived to tell the tale.’
He shook his head, but whatever anger he’d felt in the baby’s room was kept at bay. He shifted his attention back to her room, completing another slow inspection, eyes raking over all the details, including the small collection of books that went everywhere with her.
‘I know, it’s very different to what was here…’
He was silent.
‘You did say I could make any changes I wanted.’ Her voice was defensive to her own ears. ‘Didn’t you?’
Aristotle turned back to her then, his expression taut, his body tense.
‘What the hell is going on with you?’ she demanded then, stalking across the room and standing toe to toe with him, ignoring the way her stomach rolled when she caught a hint of his masculine fragrance.
‘I don’t know,’ he said finally, darkly, angrily, shaking his head, before putting his hands on her forearms and pulling her towards him. ‘I never know with you, Rosemary, and I hate that.’
The words were swallowed by his desperate, hungry kiss.