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“Jesus. That’s terrible.” I chuckle anyway.
She grins and does a little dance to the music as the verse kicks in.
I’m sure it’s my imagination, but she already looks better than she did yesterday, maybe because she’s had a few more meals, or after seeing Mathew and feeling as if she has more support, or perhaps even—a little piece of me hopes—because of the necklace?
I walk toward her as she dances, take her hand, pull her toward me, and slide my other hand onto her waist as I match her steps. She laughs, and I spin her around the room a few times, finding her light on her feet despite her bump, still able to move fluidly.
My heart picks up speed, and I think about what Kennedy said, that in getting her pregnant I’ve proven myself the alpha male, that it means I want to protect and comfort her, and that I shouldn’t be surprised if I feel frisky whenever she’s around.
I do feel frisky, it’s true. When we danced in Auckland and I rested my hand on her waist, it curved in. Now I can feel the swell of her bump, which gives her such an attractive shape. She’s fertile, blossoming, like a flower opening up in summer, turning her face to the sun. She’s carrying my sons, and even though the thought still makes my head spin, it fills me with a fierce, prehistoric surge of protectiveness and passion.
We stop turning and just move to the music, and she looks up, her green eyes bright.
“Thank you for my necklace,” she murmurs.
“It’s the least I could do.” As soon as I say it, I could kick myself, as it sounds as if I’m trying to make amends for getting her pregnant, and that’s not why I bought it for her. But she just smiles and touches the pendant, her eyes filled with something akin to wonder.
I want to tell her that I still think she’s stunning. I want to kiss her. But I hold back. I need to take it slow, give her time to get used to me, and to adjust to the idea of letting me be a part of her life. Maybe then, I can ask her out on a date, and we can see whether there’s a future for us that’s not related to the fact that she’s carrying my children.
So instead of kissing her, I spin her around again, only to hear at that moment someone say, “Oh, sorry!” It’s Marion, who hovers in the doorway, obviously worried about interrupting.
We break apart like guilty teenagers, giving short laughs. Catie pulls her T-shirt down where it’s raised a few inches over her bump, and I run a hand through my hair. “Sorry,” I say.
“No worries,” Marion says, smiling. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Damon sent me to tell you they’re about to start.”
“Thanks. I’ll head on down.” Giving Catie an amused glance, I head out of the door, scolding myself for giving in to my caveman urges. Be civilized, Saxon! Fight that testosterone!
Chapter Twelve
Catie
I’ve never liked birthdays. When I was young, my mother tried to make them fun, and I remember her buying me dolls and books and once a pair of roller blades she’d saved up for, but I never had a party. Once Mum died, that was it—there was never any chance of birthdays meaning anything other than that I was a year older. Greta never bought me a present, and if anything she was nastier to me on that day than she was ordinarily, which was saying something. Once I left home and moved in with Louise, we’d splash out on a cheap bottle of wine and a muffin with a candle, but inevitably we’d turn maudlin as it grew late, and I’d usually end up crying myself to sleep. I rarely cried, so in the end I grew to detest the twenty-second of November, and dreaded its approach.
Today, though, is the polar opposite of the way the day normally pans out. At eleven, Marion comes to my desk and bullies me down to the main office, where about fifteen members of staff have gathered around a birthday cake lit with half a dozen candles, and they proceed to sing me happy birthday before we cut the cake and pass the slices around.
Afterward, Marion introduces me to the other secretaries—mainly women—and the code monkeys that work in programming—who are mainly men. Once they discover that I’m interested in coding, the guys are a lot more talkative, and the head of programming, Richard, is impressed when he hears what websites I’ve designed. They’re all trying to talk at once as they describe what they do at Kingpinz. It soon becomes clear that they love working there, and everyone seems to adore the three Chevalier guys.
“Saxon’s a genius,” states a young kid called—for some inexplicable reason—Joop. “He’s such a visionary. Have you met Titus Oates yet?”
“That’s his cousin, right? The one who’s in England at the moment? No, I haven’t.”
“Titus works with AI, and he’s dead smart. But Saxon’s the one I admire. He can see the end product before he starts, and he sort of teases it out of the code. Like Michelangelo, releasing angels from the marble, you know?”
I smile at the young guy’s hero worship. “He sounds pretty special.”
“Oh, yeah, I mean his ideas are just… woooo.” He winds a finger around his ear and up into space. Then his expression turns curious, mischievous even. He glances at my bump. “Is it true that he’s the dad?”
“Joop!” Marion glares at him as I flush completely scarlet. “That’s an extremely personal question and it’s none of your business.” She looks at me, mortified. “I’m so sorry. He’s so busy conversing with computers that he forgets how to talk to human beings.”
I am embarrassed, mainly because I don’t know whether Saxon wants everyone to know. But they’re all looking at me, and it’s clear that the rumor has spread, as they are wont to do.
Oh well. He should have said something first if he wanted to be the one who broke the news.
“Um, yeah,” I say. “We’re having twins.”
They all stare, and then there’s an eruption of sound as everyone cheers and comes up to hug me.
“Twins!” Marion says, her eyes shining. “Oh Catie, that’s wonderful.”
