“It was implied,” I countered.
“Nothing is implied in business, Dede. Everything, it must be explicit.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. Damn it. He was right. “Well, I’m saying it now,” I said firmly, crossing my arms over my chest, which only served to push my pregnancy-swollen breasts up. His gaze darkened. “No kissing.”
“Too late, yes?” He reached out and ran his thumb across my bottom lip. “You cannot uncross that line, agápi mou.
The endearment made my heart skip. I’d missed hearing Greek on his lips, missed the way the language sounded like poetry when he spoke it.
“Fine,” I conceded, batting his hand away. “But no more kissing. That was the last one.”
“I have heard this before.” He pushed to his feet. “Should I take my bags to the guest room?”
“Yes. Since you’re clearly not sleeping in mine.”
“For now.”
“Forever,” I countered.
His smile said he didn’t believe me. “This guest room, it is where?”
“Upstairs. Last door on the left.”
This man would be impossible to live with, and yet, as I watched him cross back to the entryway and retrieve his luggage, I couldn’t deny the anticipation curling through me.
For the first time since Thanksgiving, I wouldn’t be going to bed alone in this house. Someone else would be down the hall, close enough to call if something went wrong with the pregnancy. Close enough to reach if the loneliness got too overwhelming.
It was a dangerous thought. The kind of thought that led to dependence, expectations, and heartbreak when the other person inevitably left.
But as one of the twins stretched against my ribs and Aris disappeared up the stairs with his luggage, I couldn’t quite bring myself to regret saying yes.
14
Iwoke precisely at 5:30 AM, disoriented for several seconds before recalling my location. The bedroom was painted a subdued sage green with simple, tasteful furnishings. The space was modest yet meticulously maintained, like everything else in Dede’s home.
In Athens, even at this hour, there would be staff moving through the lower floors of the estate. Here, I was surrounded by the quiet of middle-class American domesticity.
I didn’t linger in bed. I never did unless there was a woman beside me. The absence of Dede’s warmth beside me was a miscalculation I intended to correct through strategy.
But as I stood, stretching out the stiffness from a mattress softer than I preferred, I noticed the boxes stacked in the corner. There was a double stroller, two infant car seats and two convertible cribs. Unopened. All of them.
Moving closer, I cataloged the contents visible through clear plastic bins. Blankets in soft neutrals. Stuffed animals still tagged. Onesies folded in neat stacks, organized by size.
A butter-yellow onesie lay on top of one of the bins with sunflowers embroidered across its chest. I lifted it; the fabric was delicate between my fingers. The garment was minuscule, yet it would house a complete human being.
Chrysanthos had once been this small. I recalled how his hand barely encircled my thumb, and his weight was negligible against my chest.
His sister had been even smaller. She’d never worn the pink onesie with white rabbits we’d chosen for her.
I refolded the yellow garment and stepped back from the boxes, placing it exactly as I had found it. The melancholy threatened to expand, but I forced it down.
Sentiment was unproductive when it served the past rather than the future. The past could not be altered; only the future warranted attention.
My daughter—this daughter, the one Dede carried—would be different. She would wear these clothes. She would outgrow them and require larger sizes. She would live beyond Dede’s womb.
Another box caught my attention. It was filled with what appeared to be parenting books.
However, the titles gave me pause. Double Trouble, Single Handed, Me, Myself & Twins, CEO of Twin LLC, The Executive’s Approach to Single Parenting Two at Once.
