Page 87 of Ruthless Claim

“You’ve moved that same bit of pasta around your plate for five minutes,” Cillian says.

I nearly jump in my seat. Goddammit, he was paying attention. “I’m eating,” I tell him.

Cillian raises a brow. “You’re not eating. You’re disturbing your food.” He leans back in his seat, swirling his wine. “You’ve been strange for the past few days.”

My heart is going a million miles an hour. “I’ve been completely normal,” I insist but it doesn’t sound convincing.

“You didn’t steal my coffee this morning,” my husband notes conversationally but his eyes are focused on me. It’s uncomfortable.

I open my mouth then close it. Okay, fair.

“And you’re drinking sparkling water,” he continues, nodding at my glass, “when I opened a very good Barolo specifically because you asked me to last week. Now you’re not touching it.” He studies me, his eyes narrowed. “So. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” I say, too quickly.

His eyes narrow even further. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Nothing is going on, I’m just not particularly hungry⁠—”

“You’re never not particularly hungry; you stole half my lunch on Tuesday.”

I flush. “That was—I was just tasting it⁠—”

“You ate most of it,” he argues, now leaning forward. He can see me wavering and he’s going in for the kill. “So try again.”

I grip my fork. My stomach rolls. The nausea is really not helping me construct a coherent argument right now and neither is the way he’s looking at me. “Can you stop interrogating me and just eat your dinner?” I demand.

“I am eating my dinner,” he says, taking a pointed bite. “You’re not. Hence my concern.”

I scowl at him. “I don’t need your concern⁠—”

He matches my scowl. “Clearly something is wrong.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said you’re not, and one of us is right and it isn’t you.” He sets his fork down and the air goes electric between us. “Is it the gallery? Your mother? Is it something I⁠—”

“It’s not you,” I say, too fast again.

He catches that too, which is deeply inconvenient.

He leans back in his chair and looks at me with those eyes and says nothing, which makes me feel anxious.

I have a secret that is getting heavier by the minute and my stomach is staging a revolt and I cannot find the words and I’ve been trying to find them for four days⁠—

“You know,” he says conversationally, picking his fork back up, “whatever it is can’t be that bad. Unless you’ve done something catastrophic.” His eyes cut to mine. “Have you done something catastrophic?”

“No,” I say, although I’m not sure if getting pregnant falls under the catastrophic territory.

“Burned down the gallery?”

“Obviously not.”

“Told my uncle what you actually think of him?”

“Tempting but no.”

“Hmm.” He chews thoughtfully. “Secret second husband? Because I have to say, the scheduling alone would be⁠—”