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His grin widened.

She was serious. Sombre. “Did you talk about having children with Cressida?”

His smile dropped. “Yes.”

Tia grimaced. “So it really was serious?”

“We were engaged. We only went home so I could get the ring⁠—,”

“This ring?” she asked, sliding the black box from her clutch purse and placing it on the table. His eyes dropped to it but his hands stayed where they were.

“Yes.”

“Ah.” Tia sipped her drink. “Does she have children with the man she married?”

“No.” He hesitated. “Her husband is infertile, unfortunately.” His brows knit together. “I presume they’ll adopt.” Unwanted sympathy churned in his gut. Telling Cressida and Ewan about Tia and her pregnancy, if everything went according to plan, was not something he was relishing. They might have broken his heart and ruined something precious inside of him, making it impossible to trust ever again, but until he could forget the good times he’d shared with both of them, he couldn’t think of them suffering without an answering sense of pain inside himself.

“So you haven’t seen Cressida, but you keep tabs on her?”

“I hear things,” he responded, knowing he should just get it all out in the open but hesitating to reveal the darkest moments of his life to this woman, yet. Not until she’d signed on the dotted line, so to speak. It was too painful to discuss if they weren’t to have a deal. “Is that it?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Hamish. Settle in. We’re just getting started.”

He ignored the twisting in his gut, the heat building in his belly, as her words took on a twisty double meaning. This was going to be simple and professional if it killed him—and somewhere, in the back of his mind, he acknowledged it just might.

Chapter Four

“Okay. Tell me your bad habits. All of them. I want to know what I’m dealing with here.”

He arched a brow. “How would I know?”

“You’ve been in relationships. I presume people have told you.”

“I’m untidy,” he said, after a beat. “I try not to be, but I can’t help it. I leave my laundry on the floor of my bedroom.”

She pulled a face. “That doesn’t seem like you.”

He grinned. “See? You do know me.”

“You’re just trying to dodge the question.”

“Okay. I don’t cook. I really don’t. I burn anything I dare to look at.”

“I can’t really chalk that up as a problem. I’m the same. We’ll get meals in, I guess.”

“Is that⁠—”

“Hypothetically,” she added quickly. “What else?”

Impatience zipped through him, and it only compounded when the waiter appeared to take their order. He listed the first two things that came to mind, whereas Tia was more considered, choosing scallops for a starter and a risotto for main, after asking several questions about the preparation of each.

“You don’t cook but you are fastidious about food,” he said, thoughtfully.

“I told you, I like nice things.”

“I don’t cook because I’ve never needed to,” he said, after a beat. “At home, we had staff; at school, meals were provided.”

“And when you left school?”