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The waiter pulls out my chair, and I reluctantly lower into it. He goes to pour some wine and I shake my head. He nods and removes the dome covering my plate before taking his trolley and leaving.
“Pasta,” he says. “Your favourite.”
I scowl, hating that he knows those things about me. “When will you get bored, Ivan?”
“Of you? Never.”
“Of waiting,” I say. “When will you decide you’ve had enough playing the nice guy and you’ll force me back to England with you?”
“I don’t plan on ever forcing you again, Grace.” His words sound sincere, but I know deep down I can’t trust him. “We’ll move at your pace.”
“My pace is moving towards never gonna happen, so stop wasting your time.”
“I’m working on becoming better,” he says. “For you.”
I roll my eyes. “How?”
“You want a list?”
“Yes.”
He laughs. “Name the things I should change, and we’ll start there.”
“Stalking,” I throw out, and he laughs again. “Obsessive behaviours. Forcing me to have dinner on a balcony while listening to you talk crap on the telephone.”
“You don’t like the pasta?”
“I don’t like the company.”
“Lies, Grace. I was there, and you can’t deny the spark we had. You can keep lying and telling me how you hate me, but we both know the truth.”
“That’s another thing. Telling me how I feel, what I’m thinking . . . you don’t even know me, not really. You spent the first few weeks trying to make me be exactly like her,” I snap.
“You sound jealous.”
I scoff. “Of your dead wife? She suffered, and I don’t plan to.”
“Do we always have to fight?” he asks, sighing heavily. “It’s thrilling, but sometimes, we should just talk.”
“About what?”
“Our future.”
“We don’t have one.”
“Our child?” I pause, letting his words sink in. “You left in such a hurry, you forgot to hide the evidence.”
“You went through the waste bin at the hotel? That’s stalkerish.”
“We have a connection.”
“You forced this on me. I never wanted a child with you. You’re so fucking delusional.”
“So, why haven’t you taken care of it?” he asks, and I place a protective hand over my stomach. I must be at least twelve weeks, but there’s still no sign of a bump. I’ve thought about abortion, of course I have, but the second the thought enters my head, I quash it. It’s not this innocent child’s fault, and I refuse to rush into such a huge decision when I owe it to this baby to give it a chance.
“You’d be a terrible father,” I say.
“I want it so badly,” he admits.
