53. Chapter 53
C rispin
The morning, they left the Lion's Mane Inn, the skies had turned the colour of dull pewter. The garden was slick with dew, and the hedges glittered faintly with moisture, as though the world itself couldn't quite let them go.
Dana Ridges stood at the door, arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying her best not to cry, but failing miserably.
In the weeks that they had worked together, they had become the best of friends, with Dana guiding her through the obstacle course that was her first pregnancy.
And now, it felt like she was leaving that support behind.
"You could always stay longer," she sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with a tea towel. "You don't have to go yet; there's still space in the winter calendar-"
"You've already given me so much love, but I need to think about what is best for my baby," Aria murmured, hugging her tightly.
The children-Ben and Josie-were inconsolable. Josie clung to Aria's legs while Ben tried, not very subtly, to slip into the back of the Jaguar.
"I could help with the baby," he offered earnestly after his father had convinced him to come out .
Crispin, crouching beside him, gave him a solemn handshake. "If you're ever in London, you all must come visit. You can show me the proper way to put the diaper on the baby. We'll have a proper tea party-I know the best place for cakes. I'll even let you boss me around like you already do."
"Promise?" Ben asked, eyes wide.
"Promise," Crispin said, his voice betraying a smile in spite of his solemn expression. They had become fast friends, and Crispin was going to miss him more than he expected.
When they finally drove away, the whole family was waving from the gate, Dana crying openly, her apron soaked.
Aria didn't speak for most of the journey.
The drive back to London was long, punctuated by frequent stops.
Crispin had charted every service station with obsessive precision, reviewing routes and amenities like a man preparing for a military operation.
Aria hadn't even needed to ask; he simply pulled over every hour, sometimes sooner, never commenting, just quietly opening her door and asking if she needed water, or snacks, or wanted to stretch her legs.
She hated that she was grateful.
But what she couldn't hate or ignore was that Crispin had changed beyond recognition .
The world had transformed while they'd been tucked away by the sea.
October had set the countryside on fire.
Everywhere she looked, the trees were aflame.
Rich golds, burning yellows, copper-bronze, and blood reds.
The woodlands lining the motorway glowed like embers in the soft grey light.
Some trees looked dipped in paint while others were already half bare, their leaves scattered like confetti across the road verges and fields.
Even through the fatigue, the cramps, the gnawing dread of the weeks ahead, Aria couldn't help but stare.
The hills were brushed with ochre and the hedgerows lit with crimson. It was as though the earth was shedding its old skin in a burst of colour like there was something beautiful in the act of letting go.
Each time they stopped, the air smelled of mulch and cold bark and bonfires in the distance.
She kept the window open just a crack for the scent but had to close it on the motorway.
It felt like a season winding down but also like a new beginning .
And beside her, Crispin never rushed her. He let her sit as long as she needed at each stop. He walked her to restrooms, he carried her coat. And when they were back on the road, he'd check on her often, watching her as if to say, "You okay?"
The car drove down a quiet road right unto the cul-de-sac. The house was beautiful in that distinctly understated, old-money way. It was Georgian-inspired, pale brick with white picture windows and two sets of stone steps leading up to the front door. The double garage sat to the side.
Inside, it was a blank canvas.
Most of the rooms were empty, echoing with every step.
Only two were semi-furnished-the kitchen, with its warm-toned granite countertops and slightly overcompensating espresso machine; and the master bedroom, which had a hastily assembled sleigh bed and one velvet armchair that Crispin claimed was "excellent for brooding. "
They were both bone-tired by the time the boxes were stacked in hallways and the takeout dishes cleared.
Aria could barely keep her eyes open as she folded herself into the corner of the new velvet armchair in their bedroom, the fabric brushing her bare calves, her breathing already slowing with the pull of sleep.
Crispin noticed before she did.
"Come," he said gently, pulling her to her feet. "You're about to pass out. "
"I'll shower in the morning," she mumbled, but he was already guiding her through to the ensuite, his hand warm at her lower back.
The bathroom was beautiful-sun-drenched by day, now lit with warm sconces that threw soft gold across the marble tiles. A clawfoot tub stood beside the wide window overlooking the garden, and a glass-enclosed power shower steamed faintly in anticipation.
Aria stood in the centre of the room, eyes half-closed.
And then she felt the slow, deliberate movement of his fingers at her buttons, one by one.
Her eyes fluttered open. "I can do it," she murmured, a note of protest in her tone.
"Let me," he said softly. "Please. I haven't seen you like this."
Her pulse thudded in her throat.
She'd been dreading this-the moment he'd see the full truth of what her body had become. The soft swell of her belly. The mottled roadmap of stretch marks at her hips and thighs. The heaviness in her breasts. The undeniable alterations.
She turned her face slightly away, but he didn't stop .
He undressed her as though she were a piece of art being uncovered and savoured.
His gaze was warm as a hand, skimming over her breasts, now heavier, nipples dark and full. They travelled down the gentle curve of her belly, to the softened line of her thighs.
His fingers smoothed over her shoulders, his touch feather-light. He crouched, silently, and slid her panties down her legs. He lingered at the rise of her hips, the curve of her backside, the dimples just above the backs of her thighs.
She went to cover herself, shy now in the harsh intimacy of warm light and memory.
But he caught her wrists and held them gently but firmly to her sides. Then he looked up. "Let me look," he whispered.
Her voice wavered. "The stretch marks-"
"Are beautiful," he interrupted softly. "That's my baby's doing."
His breath hitched as he leaned forward and kissed the base of her belly, his lips trembling against her skin.
"I've waited," he whispered, overcome, "to see you like this... "
Then he stood, cupped her face in both hands, and kissed her slowly and hesitantly, as if giving her time to pull away. Then, when she didn't, the kiss turned deeper, hotter, his mouth parting hers with rising hunger.
His hands cupped her breasts before sliding to her waist, guiding her closer, until there was no space between them. His desire was unmistakable, hard and insistent against her belly. But he didn't push.
When they pulled apart, their mingled breaths were shallow.
He rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed for a long moment. Then, as if it cost him everything, he stepped back. "Take your shower," he said hoarsely. "I'm right outside."
She found a fresh towel and a soft nightgown waiting for her.
When she emerged, wrapped in cotton and still warm and pink from the shower, the bedroom light had been dimmed.
Crispin was in bed. He looked up and closed his laptop before he slid it aside and pulled the quilt back without a word.
Then she hesitated, he reached for her, gently guiding her towards him.
When she slipped beneath the covers, he tucked her into him, spooning her, his chest to her back, his arm resting just below her breasts.
The room was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the soft rhythm of their breathing.
And then, just before sleep claimed her, she felt him shift and felt the unmistakable hardness press against her .
He buried his face into her hair and whispered, like a confession slipping free in the dark, "You don't know what you do to me."
She didn't reply, only smiled a secret smile and drifted off to sleep.
The house was beautiful. Every room was a work of art.
The best room in the house, though, was the sunroom. It was a wide French-windowed space that looked out onto a sprawling back garden with a soft, well-kept lawn and an elegant white gazebo draped in late-summer ivy.
That's where he took her, three days after their move.
Crispin had been drowning in work over the last week. There were endless calls, board follow-ups, and legal headaches. Aria barely saw him, but she knew he was trying. He had set her up with a card and quietly said, "Use it for anything, please. For the baby. For you."
And she had, reluctantly. She ordered a crib, curtains, and furniture.
In the beginning, she hesitated at every checkout screen.
Crispin had noticed, and she could feel his silent frustration.
But she clicked "confirm" because he'd asked her to.
She had decided to trust him a little. Every step forward mattered now.