Chapter Six #2
A true predator at the top of his food chain, he’s never missed a shift in the wind.
His hand brushes mine—deliberately—and when I glance at him, his mouth is curved in that dangerous half-smile.
‘I said this isn’t ending. What I didn’t add is that I’m not going to hide what we are to one another,’ he says softly, but there’s steel beneath. ‘If that’s what you’re attempting, you’ll have to give me a good reason why.’
My heart kicks hard.
At the back of my mind, I can hear the clock ticking.
The one that says I need to wring as much from this short time as possible. Because by this time next month, I might well be on my way to single motherhood. And Theo should, must, be in my rear-view mirror.
So I execute the shortest debate known to mankind and give in. Say nothing as he wraps his strong firm hand around mine.
As he leans close enough that his breath brushes my ear. ‘Give me your time, Tessa. And I’ll make the ground shake under your feet until you forget why you ever resisted.’
A thrill, hot and reckless, courses through me at the promise, even as I bite down on the swell of a smile.
For this short time, I’ll enjoy myself, revel in his attention and his thrall, secure in the knowledge that the end date dictates my actions, that the clear sex-only lust vibrating from his every look and touch is my guiding light and my warning flare all at once, keeping me balanced on the edge between want and self-preservation.
‘Fine,’ I murmur, my chin lifting in mock-defiance. ‘Do your worst.’
The slow, sensual curl of his lips and the gleam in his eyes as he walks me to where his driver is waiting beside the open back door, unsettle me more than silence ever could.
Theo
Family dinners at Ashon’s house have grown into noisy affairs since my cousin threw himself headlong into marriage and fatherhood a little over two years ago—half celebration, half interrogation and never a space I willingly linger in longer than necessary.
Tonight is no exception.
Ashon leans back in his chair, a smug curve tugging his mouth as he recounts a new distribution deal.
Cilla sits beside him, serene in a flowing maternity dress, her hand absentmindedly stroking the swell of her belly while she listens.
The scent of garlic butter and pepper lingers in the air, lobster shells cracked and abandoned, the table groaning under a spread of nkontomire stew, fried plantain, boiled yam and roasted sea bass nestled beside French bread and platters of smoked cheese.
A blend of Ghanaian heart and international flourish, much like Ashon himself.
I swirl the wine in my glass. ‘So this is what becomes of a once-ruthless man. Domesticated. Sappy husband. Soon to return to sleeplessness.’ My tone could be drier if I tried, I’m sure.
Ashon smirks, but I catch the flicker of pride in his gaze as his hand tightens around Cilla’s, his thumb stroking her skin. ‘Our Amelia was a model baby and I’m sure this one will be too. And you’ll find it’s not so sappy when you’ve got something worth protecting.’
There’s an edge in my voice when I answer with words I don’t entirely remember.
Jealousy is not an emotion I entertain. Like most, I’m vaguely aware of the circumstances of Ashon and Cilla’s story. The friction that came before this seeming pond-smooth bliss.
It’s rare, sure, but not unheard of for two people to find enough common ground to make things work. But not a single time in the past have I experienced this…disgruntlement. This feeling of being left out in the cold for a thing I don’t even want.
I retreat but not to examine my emotions or even to attempt to feel shame about it. It’s an inconsequence that will expire quickly enough, I’m certain.
And yet when I glance across the table, I catch Tessa staring at Cilla’s belly, her expression soft, unguarded, and something even more weighty settles on me.
That is…until she notices my gaze and looks quickly away.
Then my fingers drum against the table with an even more unnerving sensation. I’m unsettled and I can’t quite pinpoint why.
Yeah, maybe it has something to do with the fact that the mood I’ve been trying to shake since Lisbon clings tighter. We returned to Accra yesterday and I’d hoped that when we drove away from the airport she might relent, let me coax her into spending the night at my penthouse in Airport Hills.
She refused.
She cited tiredness and, yes, perhaps I wore her out.
But did she truly think I couldn’t curb my appetite if she needed her rest?
The thought grates. That she’d rather put distance between us than fall asleep in my bed.
In my arms. That I would spend the night tossing and turning because apparently not having Tessa Rockson in my bed equated to a sleepless night.
I sip my wine, bitterness almost choking me.
Across the table, Tessa’s face carries a faint strain as though something gnaws at her beneath the careful smile she shows Cilla.
My instincts flare when she glances at her cousin’s belly once more. And as absurd as it is, I can’t help but remember the vehemence of her insisting on a condom.
What is the connection to that?
I open my mouth, ready to ask her outright. Probably. Or more sanely to ask if she slept well while hoping she didn’t.
Her eyes slice to mine, flashing a warning so clearly I could almost laugh. As if she believes a look could hold me back.
I narrow my eyes. My jaw sets. I lean forward, about to speak anyway—because I meant what I said. No one is going to deny my claiming of her. Not in private and not in public.
But then Cilla rises, smooth as water, sliding her arm through Tessa’s. ‘Come, help me find the herbal tea the aunts insist will make me glow brighter than the Eiffel Tower.’
And just like that, Tessa is whisked away from right under my nose.
Ashon’s gaze lingers on me as Cilla leads Tessa out of the room.
From the corner of my eye, I watch him swirl the last of his wine, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth. ‘I’ve seen that look before. A man about to fall.’
I snort, sharp and dismissive. ‘Dream on. I’m not in the market to join the domestic bliss brigade.’
He chuckles, the sound annoyingly content. ‘Call it what you want. You don’t know what you’re missing.’ He pauses, his tone softening. ‘But I was in your shoes once, so I know anything I tell you will sound like preaching to the choir.’
‘Good, I’m glad I don’t have to suffer through that then.’
I glance up, ready for him to come back with another cutting remark, but the look on his face halts me. Pure, unfiltered adoration for the woman carrying his child radiates from him, steady and unashamed.
It hits me hollow, then heavy, until something uncomfortably close to a veritable tanker of jealousy settles in my chest.
But no. That’s absurd. I couldn’t possibly want that.
I didn’t feel a single pang of thwarted fatherhood when Tamara’s message flashed across my screen years ago.
I’m pregnant.