Page 27 of 2 Books in One Bundle

Talk about himself?

He’d never heard a more preposterous, more petrifying proposal in his life. It went against his number one principle when it came to women—not getting personal and staying safe.

The exposure...

The vulnerability...

Even the thought of knowingly putting himself in such a position made his blood chill and his insides shrivel. Wasn’t that yet another reason he’d stayed away from her this week? Because deep down he’d feared that all too soon small talk would not suffice.

Well, he’d been right.

He did not want to talk about himself. At all. But what choice did he have? Given the circumstances, Mia’s suggestion wasn’t outrageous and she wouldn’t let him get away with suddenly remembering a meeting. If he stonewalled too much, she might start to wonder what his problem was. She might figure it had to be bad and decide she didn’t want him around their baby. The likelihood of getting her to agree to marry him would become even more remote than it already was.

And even if thatdidn’thappen, her point about them being connected for years to come was a salient one. He’d even told her the same thing at dinner the night she’d moved in, just before he’d offered her a slice of blueberry tart. In six months or so, all being well, they’d be bringing up a child. Together. Which would presumably require communication of some sort on a regular basis.

So perhaps he ought to practise. He didn’t have to reveal anything particularly deep. Much of his life was already in the public domain. He had decades of experience in deflection and obfuscation, when it came to others as well as himself. But on a superficial level he could give her elements of what she wanted, surely. If he prevaricated, she’d only push harder and with his inexperience he’d likely lose control of the narrative, which was not an appealing prospect.

So he cleared his throat, sat back and braced himself. ‘What do you want to know?’ he said, ignoring the sliver of unease and deliberately relaxing his shoulders, as if this conversation really was no big deal.

Mia took a sip of orange juice, thought for a moment, then said, ‘Do you like your life?’

Zander’s eyebrows shot up. That was what she was opening with? Existentialism? He didn’t know how he felt about his life. He didn’t often analyse it. Or ever, in fact. So he went for a smouldering smile and a pleasingly ambiguous, ‘Who wouldn’t?’

‘Well, a baby, I would imagine.’

‘I see no reason for anything to change,’ he said, largely because he hadn’t been to a party in a fortnight and he hadn’t slept with anyone other than her in the last six months, so it already had.

She frowned. ‘So you’re not planning on being that involved, then.’

He shot her a wolfish grin. ‘I’m very good at multitasking, I think you’ll agree.’

‘Because I need to know that if anything happens to me, you’ll be there.’

Ah. The grin slid from his face and he shifted on his seat. ‘What do you think is going to happen to you?’ he said, his gut clenching in the oddest way at the idea of anything happening to her at all.

‘Probably nothing. I mean, I don’t carry the gene that caused my mother’s disease, so that’s not a worry, but there is only me. And I don’t ever want a child of mine to face the prospect of growing up alone.’

‘I’ll always be there,’ he said, for once deadly serious. ‘And if for some reason I’m not, I have a lot of siblings and in-laws. Whatever happens, our child will never be alone. You have my word.’

‘Do you trust them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you get on well with them?’

‘Sure.’

At least, he didn’t get onbadlywith them. En masse, they could be a challenge, what with the instinctive, natural way they interacted, which confounded and unnerved him in equal measure. He found the marriages unfathomable and he’d never get used to the displays of affection between those who’d coupled up, which was why he’d be avoiding the annual Christmas get-together this evening. But on a one-to-one basis they were easier. Under those circumstances he got on with each of them in different ways.

‘So why don’t you have any photos of them?’

Why on earth would he? If he had photos of them then they’d want ones of him and that wasn’t happening when who knew what could be captured in an unguarded moment. ‘I’m not one for photos.’

‘If I were you, I’d have albums of the things. I so envy you your siblings,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I used to imagine I had four. Two older, two younger. Two boys, two girls. We’d get up to all sorts of things. Japes and escapades and jam sandwiches. We never argued. It was always perfect. Too much Enid Blyton from the library, probably. And then something would happen to burst the bubble and I’d land back in reality, which was pretty bloody awful most of the time and somehow even worse after one of my idyllic daydreams.’

‘At least you had a mother who loved you,’ he said, not much liking the shadows that clouded the clear blue of her irises, which set off an odd twang in his chest.

‘Didn’t yours?’

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