Chapter Ten #2
The sex clause was a chef’s kiss inclusion, because she was absolutely right.
As was evidenced by how they’d just spent the past hour, slavishly worshipping each other’s bodies until they were both utterly satiated.
There was no way they could live in the same space, share meals, glances, accidental touches, and not have the pressure between them build to breaking point.
Again and again. He didn’t know when it would burn out—surely at some point—but having a clearly defined agreement about what they were doing, and how they’d manage it, was yet another guardrail he needed.
And in spelling everything out so clearly—in writing, and with Rosemary at his side, in lockstep with him—he felt as though a weight had been lifted off him that he hadn’t even known he’d carried.
The pressure of always working to keep people at arm’s length evaporated completely.
He didn’t need to work so hard, because they had a contract.
Rosemary was someone who wanted an emotional entanglement even less than he did.
Aristotle smiled as he pressed another coffee through the machine, mentally tabulating the list of things they needed to do today.
Planning to spend time with Rosemary without even a hint of concern.
Usually, he would use his work as a barrier.
The long hours he spent at his desk were, if nothing else, a way to maintain strict personal boundaries.
He didn’t need that now, vis-à-vis the contract, and her willingness to go along with it.
Which left him free to let go and just enjoy…
It didn’t occur to him to worry at that point just how much he was enjoying the thought of spending the day with Rosemary. And why, if he was smart, he would run a mile, before it was too late.
‘What do you think?’
The midday sun was warm on her skin, and Rosemary tilted her face upwards to enjoy it for a moment.
Between that and the way Aristotle had his hand protectively in the small of her back, holding her close to his side, and the husky note in his accented voice, Rosemary had the sense that everything was just as it should be.
For real this time. Not pretend. Not make-believe.
The contract negotiations had actually turned the whole fake marriage idea into something real for her.
It wasn’t what most people thought of when they dreamed of marriage, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work for them.
In fact, the neat, clinical terms of the relationship were probably the only way either of them would ever enter into any kind of relationship.
Somehow, they’d taken the bomb detonation of her pregnancy and found a way to make it work.
‘Rosemary?’
He always put the emphasis on the first part of the first syllable, his tongue landing heavily on the R. It was her favourite way to hear her name now. She tilted her face slightly, away from the sun’s warmth and towards his instead.
‘Of what?’
His lips flickered into a small smile, but his eyes quickly creased with concern. ‘You sound tired. Would you rather go home?’
‘That depends,’ she said, slowing to a stop. ‘How many more of these have you arranged?’
‘One more,’ he said, then pulled a face. ‘Too much?’
They’d spent the entire morning interviewing obstetricians and touring hospitals. Not just from Greece. Oh, no. Aristotle Machairas had flown top obstetricians in from across Europe, and one from the UAE.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean yes, it is, actually.’ She laughed then, pressing a hand to his chest and revelling in the freedom to do that.
To touch when she wanted to touch. Because it wasn’t a loaded promise; it didn’t mean anything.
It was just a physical act, like sex. Nothing intimate or real about it.
‘I really do want minimal medical interventions, Aristotle. That last doctor spent the entire time going through emergency delivery procedures. I have no doubt she can cope if that happens, but I really want to focus on the fact I’m young, healthy and everything looked fine in the scan we had last week. ’
‘Of course. But it’s a good idea to have a backup plan.’
‘Yeah,’ she admitted, nibbling on her lower lip, not wanting to point out that any obstetrician in any of these hospitals would undoubtedly be qualified. There was no point. When it came to their baby, Aristotle Machairas had made it clear: he would take no risks, and no expense would be spared.
‘I can do the appointment alone,’ he offered. ‘The driver can take you on to lunch. Or home, if you’d prefer to put your feet up.’
‘Lunch?’ She instantly perked up at the idea of food.
He grinned, his whole face changing into a mask of pleasure and amusement. Her heart scampered.
‘I’ve booked a place I think you’ll like.’
The next obstetrician was, for Rosie, a clear winner.
She was experienced, confident, funny and reassuring, and one of the first things she remarked on, having viewed the ultrasound images, was the likelihood that Rosie’s pregnancy and delivery should be straightforward.
She concurred with Rosie’s hopes for a medically non-invasive pregnancy if possible, and essentially made Rosie feel as if she was doing everything right.
Her mood was already elevated, therefore, when they left the obstetrician’s office, but it lifted even further as Aristotle took her to the elevator and pressed the up button rather than down.
On the roof, there was a sleek white helicopter with tinted windows that he guided her to.
She could only glance at him with brows raised as one of the two security guards in dark suits opened the rear door for them to settle into the plush leather seats, separated from the pilot by a dark screen.
‘Is this yours?’ she asked as Aristotle handed over a set of headsets with a short nod.
She slid them on, but a moment later Aristotle was reaching across and pressing a button on the side.
They immediately dimmed the outside noise, and when Aristotle next spoke, she heard him as clearly as if he was talking right into her ear.
‘Seatbelt,’ he said, gesturing to the sash to her left.
She fastened it in place as the rotor blades began to spin and then they were lifting up, over Athens, so she craned her neck to look out of the window, staring at the incredible city—a patchwork of white stone buildings and terracotta rooftops, with the Acropolis glistening white on this flawlessly sun-soaked day.
A contented sigh escaped her lips as her eyes roamed the city. ‘Did you know it used to be brightly coloured?’ she asked, pointing towards the Acropolis.
‘Yes.’
‘Of course you do.’ She flashed him an apologetic smile. ‘You grew up here. There’s probably nothing about this city you don’t know.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true. But my father was into history—’
‘I remember.’ Another smile, softer this time. Sympathetic.
‘He liked to talk to me about it. He was very proud of his heritage.’
She reached out and put her hand on his thigh and squeezed, again thinking how grateful she was to be able to do that now.
It was so simple, except it wasn’t, because there was a burst of awareness that flared in her belly at even that simple touch.
Still, she kept her hand there instead of withdrawing it quickly, because his voice had taken on a rawness that pulled at something in her belly.
She knew his father had meant a lot to him, but the emotion in his voice surprised her.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, glancing back towards the window as the helicopter floated towards the sparkling Aegean, leaving the city in the distance.
‘You’ll see.’
She glanced at him. ‘A surprise?’
‘Isn’t that the theme of our relationship?’ he asked, but his lips flickered in a smile and she smiled back, putting the somersaulting in her stomach down to the helicopter’s speed.