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His eyes take on that steely look they get whenever I talk about my stepmother. “Less said about her the better,” he says. “Anyway, we’ll just have to wait. The law system is glacially slow. We might hear before Christmas, if we’re lucky. Talking of which, Mum would like to know whether we’ll join them for Christmas dinner. What do you think? We normally go over on Christmas Eve and stay the night, open presents on Christmas morning, have dinner, stay Christmas night, then go home. But if you’d rather, we can stay here, just the two of us.”
I smile. “I’d love to join your family.”
He smiles back, and I can see I’ve pleased him. “Okay, I’ll let her know.”
“Do I need to buy everyone presents?”
“We’ll do it together. We don’t go overboard—we mostly get fun things. When you have money, you tend to get what you want when you want it. Talking of which…” He opens his drawer, takes out a box, and slides it over to me. “Early Christmas prezzie for you.”
The white box bears the Apple logo. I remove the lid and stare at the contents. It’s a brand-new Apple iPhone.
“Holy shit.”
“You can’t keep using a phone from the last century.”
I give him a wry look. “It’s not that old.”
“It’s also stolen goods. I’d rather my sons didn’t have a felon for a mother.”
I laugh and take the phone out of the box. It’s a thing of beauty, sleek and gleaming. “This isn’t a fun present. Seriously, these are so expensive.” It’s a top-of-the-range model, too, not an older version.
“You’re worth it,” he says. “You’re going to need something to take thousands of photos of the babies.” He chuckles, then presses the button on his intercom as it lights up. “Yeah?”
“Your eleven o’clock is in the boardroom, Mr. Chevalier.”
“Shit,” he says. “I forgot. Thanks.” He lets go of the button. “I’ve got to go.” He stands and collects his laptop and phone, then comes around the desk. He slips his free hand to the back of my neck and pulls me toward him for a short, fierce kiss. Then he releases me, says, “Catcha later,” and strides out of the office.
Feeling as if I’ve been hit by a tornado, I sink onto the chair and look at the new phone. I brush the pad of my thumb along the shiny edge. To him it’s just a piece of technology, something that everyone has in one form or another. He would have no idea how I’ve never owned anything this beautiful.
Not wanting to take it with me back to the NASA workroom, I put it back in his drawer with a note,You can show me how it works later. X
I linger for a moment in the doorway. This office is like an extension of him. It smells of his aftershave. His coffee cup sits on his desk—it has a picture of the TARDIS on the outside, and inside it, as you drink, a small model of the TARDIS appears. His desk is messy, filled with papers, reports, Post-its, portable drives, pens, and wrappers—no doubt Janine will do a sweep in a minute and clear it up.
He’s like a mad scientist—untidy, scatterbrained, impulsive, driven, fierce, and unconventional. I’ve never met anyone like him. And I love him so much, and I never want to let him go.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Saxon
A few weeks go by. Catie and I are like ice dancers, skating around in individual circles while learning to dance together at the same time.
Gradually, I get to know the wary, beautiful girl I got pregnant, and I discover there are far more layers to her than I could ever have imagined.
I realize within days that my initial comparison of her to a tiger isn’t quite right. She’s more like a fox, much shyer than a tiger, backing away at any sign of confrontation or anything that frightens her, and preferring to watch rather than take part in anything involving other people.
When someone comes to the house, or if we call in to see anyone, she hardly says a word, but I can see her watching us, as if she’s an alien visiting from a civilization that doesn’t use vocal communication, and she’s only just been introduced to humans with their conversation and psychology.
She’s intelligent, but communication puzzles her, and she lacks the ability to analyze anything, including herself. She’s artistic, and enjoys drawing and painting, but she knows next to nothing about art and famous artists. She reads a lot, mainly the kind of graphic novels I was into as a teen, but she knows little about literature. She’s funny and warm and incredibly loving with me, but with others, even with Kip and Damon and Kennedy, she’s like a fox again, wary and hesitant to show affection.
She’s curious, though, and asks me questions all the time, soaking up the answers like a sponge. It’s as if she’s conscious what she’s missed out on, and she wants to make up for it now, and learn as much as she can.
One day, not long after our conversation about decorating the nursery, we arrive home and she walks into the living room and stops dead at the sight of a new desk, a few feet down from mine.
“What’s this?” she asks.
I lean on the wall and watch as she walks up to it. On the top are a small easel, a box of watercolor paints, a box of acrylics, a pot of brushes, pencils, pads of sketch paper, and a few canvases.
She looks at me, and I shrug.
