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Perhaps he hadn’t wanted people to view him as a man who was capable of cheating on his fiancé. Or perhaps he hadn’t wanted the sympathy that would come from them knowing about the baby they’d lost, too early in the pregnancy. He hadn’t wanted them to look at him in a way that would weaken his determination to get on with his goddamned life, pretending he wouldn’t always feel an ache low in his gut whenever he thought of that perfect, but tiny – too tiny – baby that had been born without breath.
Had he done something wrong? Had he missed something? Could he have got Katie better medical care? He thought he’d found the best obstetrician in America, he thought he’d done everything right. But he hadn’t, obviously, or their son would have made it.
He pushed out of bed with frustration, wishing the familiar stone of grief would dislodge, just for a moment, so he could focus on Bronte, and not hurting her as well. That was the last thing he wanted.
She was in a vulnerable place; he needed to treat her with kid gloves. But he hadn’t expected her to hone in on the one subject he guarded ferociously.
He’d already surprised himself by revealing too much about it to Bronte. He’d done it to push her away and now he was still pushing her away, but this time, it felt wrong. He’d seen the hurt in her eyes and wanted to change his mind, to tell her everything, anything to undo the pain there and make her smile again.
But once the pain was gone, and she heard what he’d done, she’d look at him as he did himself. She’d judge him. She’d possibly even despise him. And he wasn’t prepared to risk that.
She was going to look like a zombie.
She stared at the wall, breathing softly, not moving, not wanting to do anything that might wake him. It was hard enough to lie in the bed without touching him, but a single movement would brush her leg to his, or worse, her bottom to his cock, and she knew she’d explode like a live wire. Because awareness of his every single damned movement was flooding her. His deep, rhythmic breathing, the shift of the sheet across her body as he moved. Muscles she barely knew existed were vibrating inside of her, begging her for something – and while she knew what, she wouldn’t submit. She wouldn’t wake him. She wouldn’t ask him to touch her again.
She didn’t regret sleeping with him; she regretted believing it could mean nothing.
“You need to sleep.”
His voice was a gruff command. She stiffened, wondering if she was silent, he’d think he was wrong.
A second later, the lamp on his side of the bed flashed on, casting the room in a pale gold shimmer.
Apparently not.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology was something she hadn’t expected. She rolled over in time to see him drag a hand through his hair, and her heart gave a funny little tremble at the sight of Luca like this. His jaw was covered in stubble, his hair spiking in a thousand different directions, his expression sincere.
“What for?” Her voice croaked; she cleared her throat.
“For shutting you down before.”
She nodded slowly. “You made it perfectly clear that whatever we’re doing is just sex. Sex doesn’t include swapping intimate life stories. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” He frowned.
She lay with her head on the pillow, watching him, her eyes heavy even as her brain was wide awake.
He sighed. “It’s not even a big deal.” She didn’t believe him. “Katie was – a girl I met a few years ago. She was a waitress at a restaurant I used to go to. She was sweet; made me laugh.” A divot formed between his brows as he frowned. “One night, I was in the restaurant having dinner. I stuck around at the bar ‘til her shift finished; she came home with me.”
Bronte knew he had a lot of experience with women, so it was completely illogical to feel a blade of jealousy slash through her, particularly given the temporary nature of what they’d done.
“It was nothing.” He shook his head angrily. “Just a bit of fun, you know?”
Like she was. Bronte shifted her head against the pillow, a half-nod.
“And then about six weeks later, she came to the New York office, looking for me. She was pregnant.”
Bronte drew in a deep breath, pushing up a little. “With your baby?”
“Yes. Funny enough, I never questioned that. I just presumed that it was my child, because she said so.”
Bronte waited.
“I mean, I’d taken precautions, but there she was pregnant, and so I got to know her better. She was living in a run down share house in Brooklyn; I moved her into my condo. We spent a lot of time together. I came to care for her, and she fell in love with me.”
Bronte could hardly breathe.
