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Georgia’s eyes lit up but she quickly tamped down on that expression, frustrating Dante even more so. “No. I’d like to go…home. I’m…tired.”
Something shifted in his belly—the certainty she was lying to him. She wasn’t tired; she was annoyed. Why? The night had gone so well! They’d managed to dispassionately swap a lot of information. He felt like he knew more about her now, was satisfied that she would be a good mother, that they were a good fit, in terms of co-parenting. Wasn’t that the point of this evening? From Dante’s perspective, it had been a success. So why was she brooding?
In the car, they drove in silence, but it was not comfortable nor companionable.
His mind was ticking over the question of why she was annoyed, and in the meantime, he seemed to have an inordinate amount of energy to focus on her. He hadn’t noticed how sweet she smelled when they’d left the house, but now, in the confines of his Range Rover, there was the lightest hint of vanilla and musk that made his pulse thready and his temperature sky high. He drove looking straight ahead, except when his eyes, of their own volition, would glance sideways, noting the hint of cleavage exposed by the ruched neckline of her dress, the flawless, golden skin, and out of nowhere, memories of that night, when he’d touched as though it were the most natural thing in the world, flooded his brain, so he gripped the steering wheel harder, tighter, desperate now to be home as well.
Once the car pulled up out the front, she sat right where she was, staring at the house, frowning, before realising where they were. She unclipped her seatbelt, and then, without looking at him said, “Thanks for dinner. It was very nice.”
That was exactly what he’d thought! Nice. A perfectly nice way to spend time, getting to know someone you were planning to raise a child with. So why did she close the door with a little too much force when she stepped out? Why was she practically marching towards the front door now?
He’d left a key for her on the first day she’d spent in his home, and she pulled it from her handbag now, but her fingers didn’t seem to want to cooperate, so she fumbled as it inserted into the lock.
“Let me do it,” he said, his voice deep and raw.
She ignored him. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine; you’re angry. Why?”
She bit down into her lip, her sweet, soft lip and his whole body tensed, tightened, on high alert. Desire flooded him. Not here. God, not here, in his home. The home he’d shared with Bianca and Livvie. He reached for her key, turning it regardless of what she’d said, expecting some word of gratitude, but instead she threw him a look that might as well have accused him of being a neighbourhood cat killer, then stalked inside.
He followed behind her.
“Georgia, wait.” His voice was commanding. There were few people on earth who would ignore it, in fact, and Dante had become used to that fact. Used to his importance, to being respected, to knowing he could speak and be listened to. Georgia was unimpressed. She continued to walk away from him, so he had no choice but to move after her, finally grabbing her wrist to still her, so she whirled around, glaring up at him, her chest moving rapidly.
“What do you want?”
Better not to answer her honestly in that moment. “What happened?” He asked instead, glad he was able to hold onto a semblance of his focus. “Why are you angry?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. We’re supposed to be building bridges, aren’t we? Getting to know each other.”
“Yes. And we’ve done a great job of that.” She threw her hands in the air. “I know all of the important things, like where you went to school and university and your parents’ names and your siblings’ names. Just like you wanted.”
“That’s what we both wanted.”
“No, Dante, it’s not,” she spat on a small, angry laugh. “I wanted to get to know you. I wanted to hear you talk about your life like you were opening up to a friend, not reciting your CV.”
His heart shut down. His mind closed off.
“Not because I want anything more from you,” she added testily. “This isn’t about romance, for God’s sake. It’s about…seeing each other as real people. Being real when we’re together. How are we going to raise a kid if we speak like automatons? This is useless. Absolutely useless.” She threw the words at him, hand on hip, then was decent enough to wait ten or so seconds before growling in frustration and stalking away.
He let go of her hand, and didn’t go after her again. How could he? She was right, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d been wrong.
Georgia had eaten an entrée, a main course and almost the entire side serving of Ciabatta over dinner, all the while listening to Dante calmly enumerate his skills and experience in the office, wishing there was some way she could scratch beneath the surface and actually get a glimpse of what made the man tick. Instead, she was treated to the most awkwardly sterile, expressionless version of a person that could possibly exist. The more he maintained a depressing distance from her, the more she’d eaten, consoling herself with the delicious flavours. So there was no reason, really, for her to have woken at three in the morning with a grumbling tummy and a hunger that she knew, from recent experience, would only be satiated by a sandwich.
Reaching for the Vegemite she kept stashed in her suitcase—she couldn’t bring herself to unpack here, because it just didn’t feel like home—her hands brushed past several pairs of silky underwear, and she flushed to the roots of her hair remembering that Dante had come up here to retrieve her jacket. Had he seen them? Touched them?
The thought made her pulse speed up uncomfortably. Thankfully, her stomach rumbled, driving her out of the room and downstairs.
If she’d wanted such a bland recitation of Dante’s biography, she could have asked Portia about him. Not that anything about Portia was bland, but she clearly knew the man inside and out and Georgia had no doubt she’d have been a font of wisdom on all things Dante. It was hard to put into words just why Georgia was feeling so frustrated.
Because she’d wanted to hear him laugh? To smile at her? To ask personal questions, about her pregnancy and her family and the kind of mother she wanted to be? Because she wanted him to look at her and see a woman, not just the mother of his baby? Not a woman, she hastened to assure herself, just a person.
She was so distracted by her thoughts that she didn’t realise the rangehood lamp was on in the kitchen until it was too late, and she was already several steps into the room before Dante shifted and she gasped at the unwelcome surprise.
Even more unwelcome was the fact he wore only a pair of low slung shorts with an elasticized waistband, made of a sort of cotton material, so every part of him was easily discernible beneath the fabric.
