Chapter 33
I’m analysing data from the Vegas casino when an email pings up on my screen that makes me almost choke on my coffee.
ZaraBeckett@BeckettDeluxeDesignAgency.com
Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful. Though Nico is certain you’re compensating for something.; )
I’m working late this evening, so if you still want to go for dinner, pick me up from Kew Gardens, AKA my office.
Zara.
P.S. Baby Beckett is enjoying the chocolate.
Baby Beckett. Fuck that. I type out a reply.
ColeHartmann@Hartmannhotels.com
It only took five hundred orchids to get you to reply to an email personally, instead of asking your PA to fob me off. If I’d known flowers would work, I’d have sent them a year ago.
Of course, I still want to go to dinner. We have much to discuss. Namely, when you’re going to move in with me and let me take care of you.
I’ll pick you up at 6.30.
Cole
P.S. It’s Baby Hartmann. Don’t forget it.
It’s impossible to concentrate. I have a meeting with the tourism minister and the finance minister in twenty minutes, a board Zoom immediately after, and a showdown with my construction foreman, who swore the exterior would be finished two weeks ago. And yet I’m here, refreshing my emails like a desperate fucking teenager.
I glance at my watch. Shit. I need to go. I stand, snatch my suit jacket from the back of the chair and slip it on. Just as I’m about to shut down my Mac, Zara’s reply pings in.
ZaraBeckett@BeckettDeluxeDesignAgency.com
Move in with you?
I don’t even know you.
Other than that, your reappearance in my life is utterly unnerving—and my nerves are already shot to pieces right now.
I made my peace with parenting alone. Break me in gently.
See you at 6.30.
Zara
P.S. It’s Baby Beckett—my child will have the same surname as me. It’s non-negotiable.
P.P.S. I contacted a boutique Italian design company. Requested swatches of their custom made Italian leather for the casino booths. I’m looking into lighting and marbles now.
I’m going to be late if I stay to reply, but fuck it. It’s easier on the Mac than fucking around on my phone.
ColeHartmann@Hartmannhotels.com
Don’t be unnerved. My intention is to care for you and our baby. We just need to figure out the logistics.
Looking forward to figuring them out together.
Cole.
P.S. You know every inch of me. But perhaps you need to be reacquainted with all of those inches?
P.P.S. And you know I know how to break you in gently, but I have no problem reminding you.
P.P.S. If we get married before you give birth, you’d be a Hartmann and so would our baby. I’m not averse to the idea if you’re not?
I snigger as I shut down my computer.
I’m joking about getting married.
Obviously.
Well, sort of.
I spent the last five months fantasising about Zara Beckett, not knowing she was pregnant with my baby. Now that I know the truth last night’s fantasies were markedly different from simply finishing unfinished business—they were about carving out the kind of future I never realised I wanted until I saw her swollen stomach. It was like some invisible force of nature reached into my chest and stole my heart.
Zara owns me—body, mind, and every fucked-up part in between. She just doesn’t know it yet. She thinks she knows nothing about me—she’s wrong.
The memory of my mother’s latest wedding flashes before my eyes.
I opened up to Zara. I confided in her. I let her in—whether she knows it or not.
I don’t let people in.
But even back then, some part of me related to her on a deeper level. It was supposed to be sex. It was so much more from the offset. For me, anyway. I can only hope to hell she feels the same because I will be in her life in some capacity—I’d like us to at least try to give a real relationship a go.
I could lie and say it’s for the sake of the baby. It is, partly. But it’s also a selfish want. Because the second I saw her again, the caveman in me screamed I need to make her mine. Really mine, not because I got her pregnant, but because the thought of her being anyone else’s—the thought of another man raising my child—feels like a fate worse than death.
I ride the lift and step out into the May hazy sun. The heat hasn’t got a patch on Vegas, but I like it. No humidity, just sunshine and a south easterly breeze. There’s something honest about it. And it makes a change from the usual damp and dreary climate. Two of my security team, Sanson and Holmes, ride in the limo with me. Unlike in the Dominican, here, I have to travel with bodyguards. The Becketts have made no secret of their disdain for me. I can’t imagine that’s going to improve when they find out I impregnated their sister. A fact that I’m slightly smug about now that I’ve had time to process.
My iPhone buzzes in my pocket. I whip it out, stupidly willing it to be the one woman I can’t get out of my mind.
ZaraBeckett@BeckettDeluxeDesignAgency.com
If that was your idea of a proposal, it was shockingly disappointing.
And I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and my baby.
See you at 6.30pm.
Zara.
I love the banter. Irish was always sharp and sassy—ferociously independent. It was one of the things I loved—liked—about her. I type out a quick response as we pull up outside the Government building.
ColeHartmann@Hartmannhotels.com
Our baby—for the hundredth time.
And no, it wasn’t a proposal. I was just planting the seed. (Although technically, I think I did that already p>
Have a good day, gorgeous. See you tonight.
Cole
The day seems to drag on forever. I spin by the house I rented to freshen up before we pick up Zara. It’s a two-storey mansion in Skerries, nestled into the cliff, overlooking the Irish Sea. As I look around the huge oakwood kitchen and floor to ceiling sliding doors showcasing the turquoise crashing waves, my mind wanders to my father.
Coming back to Ireland was his dream, and while I was determined to establish our name here in the hotel business, I had no plans to lay roots here, yet now, I’m wondering how much this place would cost to buy, because if I’m raising a family, it’s not going to be in some cold chrome penthouse. It’s going to be in a proper home, with a garden and swings and a pool. It’s going to be overflowing with warmth, love, and laughter.
I couldn’t have predicted it in a million years, but somehow, it feels right. I think I’m finally where I’m meant to be. My father always intended to return to Ireland, but my mother was never keen. He loved her more than his home country. He used to shrug, take a sip of whiskey and say, ‘Life’s what happens while you’re busy making plans p>
That rings true today more than ever.
Because while I planned on being here for three months before moving on to the Barcelona project, I’m not going fucking anywhere.
Not until my baby is born.
Not until I can persuade his mother to give me a chance—a real chance with her.
And not while there’s breath left in my body.
As usual, I’m getting completely carried away with myself.
But it’s got me this far in life, so why stop now?
I pluck my phone from my pocket and scroll until I find the agent overseeing the rental of this place.
I want it, and, I think I mentioned before, I always get what I want.