He laughed then. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘No. You’re hyper disciplined. It’s part of what I like about you.’
‘You mean one of the few things you like about me?’ He teased because she’d said, that night she’d proposed to him, that she didn’t actually like him at all.
‘Right,’ she nodded. ‘Can I ask you something else?’
‘You’re done with my grandmother?’
‘No, it has to do with her.’
He should have expected that. The sight of one of his air stewards entering the main body of the jet was a welcome relief.
‘Can the interrogation wait until after refreshments?’
‘By refreshments, please tell me you mean coffee.’
‘I’ve got a theory, by the way,’ he said, as the steward approached and placed a tray on the table between them. He saw Charlotte’s eyes light up because there was indeed a pot of thick, dark coffee and two small cups.
‘Oh, thank heavens,’ she muttered. ‘My machine wouldn’t work this morning.’
He frowned. ‘It was working fine for me.’
Her eyes lifted to his and something sparked in their depths. Something uncertain, or accusatory. ‘What time did you leave, anyway?’
‘I didn’t look at the time,’ he lied. ‘Right around when I could feel my ribs bruising up thanks to your nightmare of a mattress.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re such a snob.’
He laughed again. ‘Which brings me back to my theory.’
‘Oh god. Do I want to hear this?’
He grinned. ‘You drink too much coffee.’
She visibly blanched.
‘But I think it’s because of your bed.’
She groaned. ‘Not this again.’
‘I’m serious. How can you possibly get a good night’s sleep in that thing?’
‘I will not have my love of coffee maligned. Nor my bed for that matter. And I have to tell you, you’re the first man to complain about it.’
For the briefest of moments, every single part of him froze. Every. Single. Part. Even the parts that were in charge of keeping his blood pumping and his lungs inflating. It was like someone unseen had waved a big magic wand and turned him completely to stone. Only for a moment. But her words were like magic—black magic—because out of nowhere, he was forced to contemplate the men who’d come before him. And he wasn’t an idiot. There had been men. How many, he had no idea—that was just precisely the kind of information they didn’t discuss.
And what did it matter? She hadn’t been a virgin when they met. Beyond that, who cares?
Still, just the idea of the men who’d been with Charlotte, who’d gotten to drive her wild, who’d made her groan with pleasure, made him feel...angry. Angry like he’d felt the night he’d agreed to marry her.
Except, he realised now, it wasn’t just anger. It was more complicated than that. It was a swirling vortex of darkness. Of jealousy—yes, he was jealous—and dislike. It was hatred and envy. It was ego and competitiveness. A need to know that he was the best, he was different. It was a soul-deep wish to be able to somehow go back in time and change everything around. But how the hell could he? Besides, he’d been married to Jamie and some of those years had even been happy ones, before their inability to conceive had soured every aspect of their lives. It was an errant, totally undeserved, unwarranted and unwanted reaction. A purely emotional response that he quickly talked himself out of. This was just casual. Fun. Nothing serious. Charlotte could sleep with whomever she wanted and so could he, when this was over.
‘Coffee?’ She prompted, having poured her own cup and now hovering the spout of the pot over his.
He nodded once. ‘Please.’
‘I sleep fine,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter how much coffee I drink. When I’m tired, I sleep.’
