Her sigh was a gust down the phone line. ‘Then why?’
‘There are practical reasons for our marriage.’
‘She’s not pregnant, is she?’
He heard the awful, awful fear in those words and wanted to rip out his heart. ‘No.’
‘Okay. I mean, I shouldn’t—I’m sorry—I’m asking things I have no right to ask. I’m just—blindsided.’
‘I should have texted you first, prepared you better.’
‘We’re divorced. I honestly never expected you to stay single, Dante. It’s fine.’
‘This isn’t like what we were, Jamie.’ That was the God’s honest truth. Jamie and he had been little more than teenagers when they’d met and their relationship had been one of growing up together. They’d been friends, first and foremost. They’d never had the kind of explosive sex that he and Charlotte shared. He knew Jamie needed to hear that truth, but he felt something unexpected in saying those words—he felt the sting of having betrayed Charlotte, who deserved better than to be minimised to save another woman’s feelings.
He ground his teeth, hating the complexity of this. It was exactly the kind of situation he’d sworn he’d never again be in.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, again. ‘I’m happy for you.’
She sounded the exact opposite of happy.
‘I just wanted you to hear it from me.’
‘I appreciate it. And I always like to hear from you,’ her voice took on a wistful edge. ‘I have to go now,’ she said, the words quivering a little, as though she were fighting tears. ‘We’ll talk later, okay?’
She disconnected the call before he could respond.
He closed his eyes, trying to picture Jamie, to imagine her face, but it was Charlotte’s eyes that lanced him, clear, inquisitive, endlessly fascinating. He groaned, dropping his forehead against the glass and staring down at the city, kicking himself mentally, for the hundredth time, for agreeing to this.
‘This is very comprehensive,’ Lottie said, flicking a glance across the kitchen counter, to where Dante was placing a selection of antipasto on a serving platter. It was hardly gourmet cooking, but she was still impressed by the way he was assembling antipasti, as though he did such things on a daily basis.
‘The platter?’ he asked, following her gaze.
She laughed. ‘The prenuptial agreement, but the platter too.’
His grin made her stomach twist. ‘Better to be safe than sorry.’
She turned the page and jolted upright.
Section 7—children.
She pressed a finger to it then looked at him again. ‘Children?’ Her voice was a little high pitched.
‘We’re having sex and getting married. It seemed like a wise precaution.’
‘But we’re not having children. I’m on contraceptives.’
‘Sure, but it’s better to be—,’
‘Yes, yes, safe than sorry, I heard you before.’ Her eyes widened and out of nowhere, something clutched in her belly, at the thought of carrying a baby—their baby—to term. She shook her head, panic quickly overtaking it. ‘I don’t want children.’
‘We’ve discussed this,’ he reminded her, putting down a slab of feta cheese and coming to the other side of the counter, bracing his hands on the top. ‘Neither of us wants kids. It’s all good. But sometimes, accidents happen and the point of a prenuptial agreement is to safeguard against any possible contingency. Okay?’
She returned her attention to the document, moving her finger as she read the stipulations. There was nothing particularly unexpected, she realised, her nerves calming a little. Provisions as to custody in the event of a divorce, the fact neither parent could remove the child from the country without written permission of the other, the allocation of a set amount by Dante in a trust, a provision for consultation when it came to matters such as healthcare and education. She nodded as she continued reading, her throat dry but breathing returning to normal.
‘Okay, that’s all fine,’ she said with a lift of her shoulders, turning the page and landing on the far less controversial question of assets.
By the time she’d finished reading, Dante had moved the platter between them and poured two glasses of red wine. She eyed her glass, the deep, burgundy liquid beautiful to look at.
