‘Really? That’s a great idea.’ And it was a great idea, Pepe told himself. His stomach hadn’t really cramped at the thought of Cara and their baby living away from him.
‘It just makes sense, especially as this house is going to become your main base. It’ll make it easier for the baby to be living in the same city as her mam and dad.’
He forced a smile. ‘I was thinking of turning your old room into a nursery.’
‘An excellent idea. You’ll be right next to him or her then.’ Her face scrunched. ‘You’ll have to move my boxes into another room though, at least until I move out.’
‘Not a problem.’ For practicality, they’d moved her clothes and toiletries into his room, but all her other stuff was still in her old room, still in boxes from when he’d had it flown over from Dublin.
Cara was saying words that should have been balm to his ears. She’d not developed feelings for him that ran beyond a sexual level, and nor had she dropped any hints, subtle or otherwise, about making things between them permanent. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. He was positive that any day soon his lust for her would start to abate. Any day.
So why did the thought of her living under a different roof from him make his chest feel so tight? Why did the thought of living without her make it hard to breathe?
* * *
After a long weekend in Sicily with Pepe’s family, spent hanging out with Grace and deflecting her friend’s worries about Cara and Pepe’s relationship, Pepe left for a week-long trip to Chile, a distance they’d agreed was too far for her pregnant self to accompany him.
Alone in the house, Cara’s mind kept drifting back to the talk she’d had with Grace, when her friend had tentatively voiced her concerns.
‘Cara, you do know Pepe isn’t a man for the long term? It’s just that there’s been no mention of marriage or anything—’
‘Of course it’s not permanent,’ Cara had interrupted. ‘We’re just taking it a day at a time until it runs its course.’
‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ Grace had asked with a furrowed brow.
‘Of course I do,’ she’d said defiantly. ‘I’m getting to know my child’s father properly. We’re not going to have some fake marriage for the sake of the baby which only ends in misery for everyone. When our relationship runs its course we’ll still be friends, which will only benefit our child. We don’t want him or her being born into a war zone.’
She’d ignored her friend’s worried face, pushed the image away now as she cast her eye around the huge space that was Pepe’s living room.
Before leaving for Chile he had taken her to the huge vault storing his infamous art collection. ‘I’m putting the hanging and placement of my collection in your hands,’ he’d said solemnly.
Cara had been incredibly touched.
Pepe had left his multimillion-euro art collection in her hands, giving her carte blanche to hang and place them in his home as she saw fit. Trusting her.
Deciding where to place it all, overseeing the hanging—he’d insisted on getting professionals in because he didn’t want her having to climb up and down stepladders when she was six months pregnant—had fulfilled her more than she had thought possible. It had been a project and a half, and one she had embraced with all the Irish enthusiasm that flowed in her blood.