At the doorway, I turn to my mother. ‘Thank you for dinner; it was wonderful.’
She holds me tight against her chest. ‘Don’t thank me. You know well I didn’t cook it.’ Christmas Day is the only day of the year that my mother cooks. Between us, we have enough staff to form an army. Let’s hope we don’t need one.
‘I’m so worried about you.’ She admits in a hushed tone, patting my hair like I’m a child.
‘Don’t be. I’m fine. I promise. Fine, but busy. Work is crazy. The boys are on my back about the Cannes development.I’ll probably have to fly out there in a couple of weeks. And I have a Yank harassing me—well Nico mostly.’
I’ve yet to tell them I’ve accepted the Hartmann Hotel project.
Maybe it’ll at least distract them from the fact I’m knocked up.
Doubtful—but you never know.
‘I have his hotel booked in for June, but he’s fighting to push our meeting forwards. And then I’m expected in Galway next week for the Irish Business Woman of the Year event.’
‘I hate to say it, honey, but you look wrecked.’ She tuts sympathetically.
‘Yeah, I’m still waiting for the “glowing stage” to kick in. Maybe it’ll miraculously happen before the award ceremony. But thanks,’ I say, forcing a laugh.
‘You know what I mean,’ she says, squeezing my arm. ‘Just take care of yourself. You and my grandchild.’ Her gaze falls to my stomach.
Tate appears in the doorway. ‘So, am I sacked?’
‘You’d never be that lucky,’ I retort, placing a hand on my stomach again. ‘I take it you heard?’
‘Yep.’ His gaze tracks the movement of my hand. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Now you’ve got double trouble to look out for.’ I follow him to the SUV.
‘California,’ he mutters quietly.
‘Who else?’ Felstead is in the driver’s seat of an SUV outside the door.
‘Call me tomorrow, darling.’ My mother calls, waving from the doorway.
‘Will do,’ I promise.
When I finally get home, back to the huge apartment I bought two years ago, I immediately head to my bedroom, curl up on the soft cotton sheets and burst into tears.
Because despite my bravado in front of my family earlier, I’m terrified of fucking up. Well, fucking up even more than I already have.
I have no idea how to be a parent—much less a single parent.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
COLE
The jet dips lower through a blanket of pewter clouds looming over the brooding Irish sky as I take in the cabin around me. My jet—Hartmann Hotel’s company jet—is more like a penthouse than an aircraft. Two cream leather sofas face each other across a polished walnut aisle. A marble bar gleams at the rear, stocked to the hilt with small-batch bourbons and Crystal, though I’ve barely touched any of it recently. The fixtures are comprised of gold. Soft recessed lighting spills over handwoven carpeting made in a Parisian atelier. My father picked the original layout years ago. He claimed comfort makes a man more dangerous, because once you get used to it, you’ll do anything to keep it.
The mid-cabin suite door is half-open. Inside, a king-sized bed dressed in charcoal linen punctuates the space. The headboard is stitched with the Hartmann logo. There’s a walk-in wardrobe stocked with more designer suits than I’d need for a year, never mind a few months. The bathroom boasts a rainfall shower and claw foot bath big enough to seat six.
I’ve never used it.
No. Most of this trip I’ve spent at a desk where I’ve beenpretending to work, while simultaneously bubbling with the prospect of being reunited with the one woman in this world who managed to claw her way under my skin—and I still don’t know her damn name.
One thing’s for sure.
I’m going to find out.
