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“Where is your mom?” she asked.
“She’s remarried and pretty much enjoying her life now that she’s out from under the burden of her marriage to our father.”
“Do you see her at all?”
“I don’t see her very often. But we text. It’s enough for me,” he said.
She nodded. “It’s like that with my mom. I know other people have these crazy-close relationships with their parents but that was never us. She raised me to think for myself and do things for myself.”
“Same,” Rafe said. “My father gave me the legacy...that sort of feeling of pride in being a Montoro, and my mom gave me the strength to stand on my own while I carry out my version of what that means.”
Emily reached across the table and linked their hands together. “I wonder what we will give our baby?”
“Probably everything we never had and always wanted,” Rafe said.
Their food arrived and their conversation drifted to lighter topics like bands and books and movies. Everything but the one thing Rafe wanted to discuss. But she’d asked for time, for an evening where they were like every other young couple out on a date.
And he struggled to give it to her. This felt like a game she was playing, and if he wasn’t so sure of her confusion about what to do with him, he’d demand an answer. But he knew she wasn’t acting maliciously. She was pregnant by a man she hadn’t intended to get to know better. The fact that they liked each other as much as they did was fate.
Fate.
Was that what this was?
They weren’t like everyone else. They never were going to be. And the fact that Emily wanted them to be didn’t make him feel confident for their future together. It started a niggling bit of doubt in the seat of his soul where he’d been confident until now that he could have it all. The throne, his child and Emily by his side.
* * *
The rhythm of Little Havana pulsed around them as they walked up Calle Ocho. Rafe reached out and grabbed her hand, lacing their fingers together. Tonight they were pretending that nothing else existed.
But she was aware of the reporters who had followed them from Rafe’s South Beach penthouse and were now probably taking photos of them. She wore a Carolina Herrera dress she’d found in a vintage shop earlier in the week. It was a cocktail number in turquoise that hugged her curves on top and had a plunging neckline that gave way to a full skirt that masked her small baby bump.
Everything had been different between her and Rafe since earlier in the week when he’d come diving with her in Key West.
She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew a lot of it had to do with the new feelings she had for him. It was silly to call it anything but love. Except that she wasn’t too sure what love was.
Her mom and she had a relationship based on mutual respect and caring. She could count on one hand the times her mom had told her she loved her. It wasn’t that Emily felt unlovable before this; it was just that she struggled to believe these feelings were real.
“Have you been here before?” he asked as they approached the club.
“Little Havana?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Yes. This club—no. I’m not usually on the celebrity radar...though in this dress, I bet I could get in without you tonight.”
“You might be able to,” Rafe agreed. “The owner and I went to school together.”
“The hottie baseball player?”
“He’s married. And you’re spoken for,” Rafe said.
“Am I?”
“You are. We could make it official. I’ve been carrying your ring around in my pocket.”
“Not tonight,” she said. She was closer to saying yes. The more time they spent together, the more she realized that being his wife was...well, exactly what she wanted.
“Prepare to be amazed,” he said. “They pulled out all the stops with this club.”
Emily’s breath caught as they were waved past the line of waiting guests and through the grand entrance. The Chihuly chandelier in the lobby was exquisite. But then when wasn’t a Chihuly glamorous?
The club was divided into several different areas. The main floor in front of the stage was a huge dance area surrounded by high-stooled tables and cozy booths set in darkened alcoves. On the second floor, where they were headed tonight, was a mezzanine that overlooked the main club and featured a Latin-inspired dance floor. The hottest Latin groups performed there. Regular people and celebrities mingled, brought together by the sexy samba beats of the music.
“Rafael! Hey, dude,” said a tall, broad-shouldered man coming over to them. “Do I have to genuflect now?”
Rafe grabbed the man’s hand and did that guy hug that was part shoulder bump, part slap on the back before they stepped apart. “Only you do.”
