Never Say Forever

And so the week progresses, a week where we don’t discuss our long-term living arrangements, beyond the number of bedrooms we’ll need to house our future offspring, numbers that should be frightening but are not. It’s a week full of love and laughter and kisses stolen in strange places to avoid snooping four-year-olds and their pesky questions.

What are you doing . . .?

It’s a week where we refuse to allow the spectre of Simon to hover over us. By Wednesday, I’ve begun to relax. By Thursday, I’ve almost convinced myself that I’ve been overthinking things. He’s not going to want to get to know Lulu. Not him.

The things Carson said about him rang true the more I thought about my time with him. He may well be a sociopath, or at least have sociopathic tendencies. But it had started to bother me when I thought about the exchange in the hotel foyer. The way his fiancée had been clearly besotted and the way he’d played his part so well. It struck me how he pursued me back in France, how he’d wooed me with the same kind of tender affection. At least, until he got bored or his time in Monaco was coming to an end, or whatever the hell prompted him to decide he’d wasted enough time or money on his pursuit.

Six dates and a couple of fancy dinners, and I owed him.

So now not only am I concerned for my child, but I’m also concerned for Melly, who seemed like a sweetheart. But I’m stuck, because what can I do? Even if I could find her, what would I say? Remember me? Remember the sweet child in the pink pyjamas? Well, she’s actually the child of your fiancé. Yes, he and I made a baby, though I’m now actually in love with his brother. Do you know Simon gave me a false name? Lied to me? That he might have a mental disorder?

Who would she be more likely to believe? Me, the potential home wrecker, or the man she loves? The man who is a flawless liar? Telling her doesn’t seem like much of a plan. Or a plan worth the pay off. Yet, I’m still pondering it. Pondering it between my moments with Carson. My God, I love that man.

Friday rolls around and the air is cold and crisp and full of promise especially as, this evening, we’re heading off for a weekend away. Carson assures me the little lakeside cottage he owns, just ninety minutes from the city, does possess electricity and even soft furnishings. While I’m the first to admit I’m not built to survive (or even enjoy) the wilderness, I will own that I’m looking forward to seeing him chop wood for the fire. He even promises there might be a flannel shirt involved. For Lulu’s part, she’s keen to shove sticks into a campfire and get her little hands on the magical morsels Carson has been telling her about called s’mores.

“Hey, Fee.” I turn at the sound of Ethan’s voice. “I’m glad you could come in early this morning.”

“No problem. You remember I’m leaving early this afternoon, right?”

He shrugs, not concerned with the details. “Anyway, this morning, there’s a client who’s looking for an introduction to yoga. Private classes, twice a week. It’s a ten-week booking. You think you might be interested in that?”

“Absolutely!” What’s better than running a yoga class? A one-on-one private session. It’s a better learning environment, for sure. And yoga is just a great way to start the morning. Maybe not quite as good to starting the day with Carson, but still good. “Only, I didn’t bring my stuff.” I glance down at my office wear wondering I’m only just hearing of the opportunity now.

“It’s just a casual meet this morning. Fill out the paperwork, go through the health questionnaire with him. That kind of stuff.”

“Oh.” Him. Most of the clinic’s clients are women, though not exclusively.

“Well, I’m gonna hit the gym. Let me know if you need anything.” And with that, he’s gone.

I make my way into the reception to grab an electronic tablet to register the client, pulling open the drawer when a hand covers mine.

“Hello, Fee. Have you got a little time for the other brother?”

43

Fee

“I was hoping you’d be in your workout clothes.” Simon’s words are delivered in the kind of soft whisper meant for promises. Not threats.

I jerk out from under him, plastering my body against the wall behind the reception counter, my heart beating out of my chest from sheer shock. “You shouldn’t be here.” My eyes flick to the security camera on the other side of the room. I’m alone, yes, but whatever goes on in here will be recorded.

Am I seriously worried he’ll attack me? He was never violent.

Calm down. Don’t confuse your sociopaths with your psychopaths.