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“I hear you…” I looked out the window at some cattle grazing in the distance. “Well, no pressure from me. I just wanted some clue as to what we’re doing. The offer will stand, even if it’s months from now.”
He arched his brow. “That’s not really true, though, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re at a point right now where you can carry the baby, but if even one thing changes, that won’t be the case.”
“Like what would change?”
“If you met someone and he didn’t like the idea—something like that.”
“Well, he’d have to accept it, if it was what I wanted.”
“I wouldn’t easily accept my woman carrying someone else’s child.”
“Even if it was for a good cause?”
He scratched his chin. “No, probably not.”
“Well, my track record is such that I don’t have to worry about meeting Mr. Right anytime soon.”Instead, I’ll just sit here crushing on Mr. Not A Chance in Hell.
CHAPTER 8
Abby
Track 8: “When Will I See You Again” by Three Degrees
After driving back from Brighton House, we pulled up to the inn and found Lavinia waiting outside for us. She wore a purple hat adorned with a flower and a long, crushed-velvet black coat.
“Oh my God. Lavinia’s so cute. Does she always get all dressed up and wait outside like that?”
“Patience is not her strong point.” Sig chuckled.
I rolled down my window, and she stuck her head in. “Hello, loves. I figured I’d get some fresh air while I waited for you to come back.”
“Just admit you have ants in your pants,” he teased.
“You’re coming with us, Sigmund, yes?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I wasn’t planning on it. I need to get back to London.”
I was bummed to hear that.
Lavinia stuck her head farther into the vehicle. “You must come. You know I can never finish my fish and chips. It doesn’t heat up the same way at home and makes the whole house smell like fish. I need you around to clean my plate.”
“You want me to join you for dinner because I’m your human waste disposal…”
“Come on,” I urged. “You need to eat anyway, right?”
Sig exhaled. “Fine.”
It was a nice night, so Sig parked, and the three of us walked down to the pub—the only restaurant within walking distance of Lavinia’s house. Despite her frail appearance, Lavinia did pretty well walking the few blocks there, albeit at a slow pace.
McPhee’s Pub, like many of the buildings in Westfordshire, had a stone exterior. It was an old building, and the inside featured a dark ambience, with cherry-wood booths and small jarred candles set out on the tables. It had a very homey feel. There were lots of framed photos on the walls and various trinkets hung everywhere. It seemed like an extension of the inn.
A waitress came by and placed menus in front of us. “What do you fancy to drink?”
“I’ll have a water,” I told her.
