in to the supermarket on his way home, trying to ignore the piped Christmassy music and the stacks of Christmas chocolates and goodies displayed throughout the shop. Right now it didn’t feel much like Christmas. It felt as if the world had been shaken upside down and he wasn’t quite sure what day it was. Though he rather thought he might need some kind of Christmas miracle right now.
He concentrated on picking out things he thought might tempt Ella to eat, and added a box of vitamins specially formulated for pregnant women. Then he came to the large stand of flowers by the tills. Did Ella even like flowers? He didn’t have a clue. He knew some women hated cut flowers, preferring to let them bloom in a garden or on an indoor plant. And there was the scent issue. Something as strong as lilies might set off her morning sickness.
But it would be a gesture. A start. A way of showing her that he wanted to be on the same side. Maybe something not over-the-top and showy, like the large bouquets sprinkled with artificial snow and glitter. Something a little smaller and bright and cheerful with no scent, like the bunch of sunny yellow gerbera. Although he didn’t have a vase at home, he could stick them in a large glass of water overnight so they’d still look nice in the morning. Hopefully Ella would like them.
Then maybe tomorrow they could talk sensibly about their options. Hopefully Ella would tell him what she really wanted. She’d said that she was only telling him about the baby out of courtesy, but did she really mean that? Did she want him to be part of the baby’s life—part of her life? Or did she really mean to do what their colleague Sienna seemed to be doing, and go it alone?
And what did he want?
Since Justine’s betrayal, Oliver had major trust issues when it came to relationships. He didn’t date seriously. He hadn’t even wanted a proper relationship, thinking that the risks of getting hurt again were too high. But the fact that Ella was expecting his baby changed that. He knew he definitely wanted to be a part of his child’s life.
And Ella? He’d fought against his attraction towards her for months, keeping it strictly professional between them at work. Then, the night of the charity ball, he’d danced with her; it had felt so right to hold her in his arms. To kiss her, when he’d driven her home. To make love with her, losing himself inside her.
If he was honest with himself, he wanted to do it again. And more. He wanted to wake up with her curled in his arms. Being with Ella had made him feel that the world was full of sunshine. That snatched evening was the first time he’d felt really connected with anyone for years. He could actually see them as a family: Ella nursing the baby at the kitchen table, chatting to him about his day when he got home from work. Going to the park, with himself pushing the pram and Ella by his side—maybe with a little dog, too. Reading a bedtime story to the baby together and doing all the voices between them.
They could give their baby the kind of childhood he hadn’t had. One filled with warmth and love.
But then reality slammed in. Did she feel the same way about him? Did she want to make a family with him, or did she just want financial support, the way Justine had? OK, so she didn’t know who his parents were, and she’d said earlier that she didn’t want his money—but was it true?
Had it meant anything to her, giving him her virginity? Or had it all just been a nuisance to her, an embarrassment, something she wanted to get rid of and he’d happened to be in a convenient place to do her a favour? And why had she been so adamant that they didn’t need contraception—especially as it now turned out that she hadn’t been on the Pill?
He didn’t have a clue. In normal circumstances, that would be a difficult conversation to have. With pregnancy hormones clouding the issue, it was going to be even harder.
Tomorrow.
He’d sleep on it and hope that the right words would lodge themselves in his head by tomorrow.
ON SUNDAY MORNING, Oliver drove over to the pretty little square where Ella’s flat was and rang her doorbell.
She opened the door wearing pyjamas, sleepy-eyed and with her hair all mussed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,’ he said.
‘It’s almost half-past nine, so it’s my bad,’ she said wryly. ‘What do you want?’
He held up the recyclable shopping bag. ‘I brought breakfast. I thought maybe we could talk.’
‘Breakfast?’
‘And these.’ He handed her the gerbera. ‘I hope you like them.’
Unexpectedly, her beautiful green eyes filled with tears. ‘Oliver, they’re gorgeous. I love yellow flowers. Thank you. Though you really didn’t have to do that.’
‘I wanted to,’ he admitted. And right now, seeing her all warm and sleepy, he really wanted to take her in his arms and hold her close and tell her that he’d protect her from the world.
Except he wasn’t sure how she’d react, and he knew he needed to take this slowly and carefully until he had a better idea of what was going on in her head. He wasn’t going to end up in the same place he’d been after Justine, where he’d been in love with her but she hadn’t loved him back.
‘Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.’ She ushered him through to her living room. ‘I’ll go and have a quick shower and get dressed, and then I’ll put those lovely flowers in water.’
‘You don’t have to change on my behalf.’
She gave him a speaking glance. ‘I can’t be sitting here at my kitchen table in pyjamas, with you all dressed up like a magazine model.’
‘Apart from the fact that I’m not all dressed up, I don’t mind if you stay in your pyjamas.’
‘Well, I do.’
He really didn’t want to sit around doing nothing. It wasn’t his style. He’d always preferred keeping busy. ‘Shall I make breakfast, then, while you’re showering?’
He could see that she was torn between insisting that it was her flat so it was her job to make breakfast, and letting him do something. ‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘I normally eat in the kitchen, if that’s all right with you.’
‘OK. I’ll see you when you’re ready.’
By the time Ella had showered and changed into jeans and a cute Christmassy sweater with a reindeer in a bow tie on the front, Oliver had laid two places at the tiny bistro table in her kitchen and had arranged everything on the table: freshly squeezed orange juice, granola, yoghurt and a bowl of hulled and washed strawberries. It looked amazing. And she couldn’t remember the last time anyone apart from her parents had made this kind of fuss over her. Right now she felt cherished—special—and it was a good feeling.
‘No coffee,’ he said.
‘Thanks. I really can’t bear the smell of it.’
‘And that’s why I held off on the croissants. Just in case they affected you, too.’ He gestured to the teapot.
