Page 91 of The Billionaire's Demand

In preparation for the unlikely event of both parents’ deaths, a suitable guardian will be nominated and agreed upon by both parents prior to the child’s birth.

Libby’s heart stammered. A suitable guardian?

She felt queasy at the idea of not being able to raise her own child, but of course it was something to consider, an important point to tick off. It wasn’t likely to come to pass but, given Raul’s upbringing, it made sense he’d want to know they’d made an effort to mitigate any eventuality.

She turned the page quickly: In the Event of Divorce.

And there it was, in black and white. The reality of what they’d do if their shotgun marriage failed. Heart thumping, she skimmed the page first, then returned to the top and read it properly.

The document set out terms requiring them to live no more than three miles apart, to share custody fifty per cent per parent, and to mutually agree to any other caretaking arrangements. It was all very reasonable. So reasonable that, for a brief moment, Libby contemplated taking the deal.

After all, they were terms she could almost live with.

Almost, but not quite.

Sharing her baby? Not having them with her half of the time, but rather sending them to live with Raul. She shuddered. Perhaps there would come a point when she’d be prepared for that, but it was not now, not yet. Not before they’d even given this a proper try.

She pushed the contracts aside and returned to the kitchen, trying not to think about the contingencies they were making a plan for. All Libby wanted to focus on was her baby.

‘Where did you learn to cook?’ he asked, shovelling a third serving of lamb onto his plate along with mashed chickpeas and some greens. Libby stared at him, aghast. It had been delicious and tender, but surely he’d had enough?

‘Um...’ she said, momentarily not computing his question because she was so caught up in his appetite. ‘I suppose I cooked a lot, growing up.’

He waited for her to continue, lifting a fork of dinner to his lips. She was mesmerised. Not just by his appetite but by everything about him. The entire experience of having him come home from work, place his leather laptop bag down on a kitchen stool, drape his jacket nearby, roll up his shirtsleeves to reveal two tanned forearms, remove his tie, flick open his shirt... It had all been so...intimate.

She glanced away from him, the word catching her by surprise.

They were not intimate. They’d slept together once, and they were having a baby, but there was nothing close nor personal about their dynamic, even when they were sitting opposite one another, sharing a meal.

‘As a hobby?’ he asked, though there was something in the depths of his grey eyes that showed he perceived more than he was revealing. That he already suspected the answer to that question.

She shook her head slowly. ‘It was one of my jobs.’

He was quiet as he contemplated that. ‘One of?’

‘I helped run the house,’ she said, pressing her fork around her plate, manoeuvring a piece of broccolini from one side to the other. ‘My mother wasn’t much for housework, but she expected things to be just so. She liked nice food, said it was our job to provide a good meal for the man of the house.’ Libby couldn’t help rolling her eyes. ‘She was old-fashioned like that.’

Raul made a noise of disapproval.

‘Besides which, I like food too, and it was either learn to cook or eat very badly, so I learned.’

‘How?’

‘I watched tutorials on the internet,’ she said. ‘I had to get creative. We couldn’t afford a lot of the ingredients, so I’d take a meal and work out how I could do something similar for a fraction of the cost. There was a lot of pasta and rice substitution,’ she said with a tight smile.

Raul’s eyes narrowed; sympathy softened the edges of his mouth.

She cleared her throat. ‘But I liked it,’ she said, because the last thing she wanted was for him to feel sorry for her. ‘I got a sense of satisfaction out of what I could make. I enjoyed shopping, preparing, and discovering that whatever I’d cooked was actually pretty damned good. Most of the time.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘There were also some disasters.’

His laugh was soft, warming. She liked the sound of it.

‘When did you move out?’ he asked, eyes heavy on her face.

‘My mother left me, actually,’ Libby said. ‘I was nineteen. She’d started living with a new guy a few months before. He got a job in Brisbane, and I came home from work one day to find the place empty except for my bed.’

‘Charming,’ Raul muttered.

Libby made a sound of agreement. ‘I was an adult.’ She shrugged, trying not to focus on the feeling of betrayal and hurt. ‘It’s not like I was too young to manage. I coped.’ Her chin tilted and she felt the look in his eyes, the emotions there, and wished he’d stop looking at her with so much pity, or something.

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