child of hers should she ever have one.
With the rest of the congregation Izzy rose to her feet. Were his eyes trained on the exposed nape of her neck or was it her guilty conscience that made her skin prickle and tingle? Tingle the way his long fingers had once made her—she pushed the thought away and took a deep breath. With Lily on one hip, she stared blankly at the service sheet clutched in her free hand, knowing she was a whisper away from tipping over into outright gibbering panic.
She had to stay calm.
She had to think.
The father of her baby was sitting behind her. What was she meant to do now?
Take a leaf out of her mother’s book and write him a letter?
Casually drop into the conversation,
Oh, by the way, this is your daughter
? Now that would be a real ice breaker, but could it be listed under small talk?
She choked on a bubble of hysterical laughter, the sound drowned out by the hymn being sung.
Realistically Izzy knew, always had known, that should this unlikely event occur she had to accept the real possibility that he might not even remember that night two years ago. So maybe doing nothing was a possibility? Just wait and if he said nothing leave it …?
She reluctantly discarded the tempting idea. This was Lily’s father. What had Rory called him … Roman? Atleast she had a name now and knew that he was Italian, although she’d already had an idea about his nationality. During their night together he had whispered wonderful things to her in throes of passion; she might not have understood the things he had said, but she had recognised the language.
She remembered everything.
She tried to push away the hot, erotic images crowding in—she had to focus.
On what, Izzy—your impending public humiliation?
Her chin lifted. She would take what was coming, but not Lily. She would protect Lily.
Lily, who looked so like her father, which was good news for her because she’d grow up to be the female version of him—stunning—but bad news because surely everyone seeing them together would know.
And he’d seen Lily.
He had to know!
Was he sitting there in shock?
No point speculating; she just had to stay calm and play this by ear. A wedding was hardly the place to introduce a man to his daughter.
Was there a good place?
He might be here with his girlfriend or wife even …! Feeling sick now, Izzy closed her eyes and tried to remember who had been sitting next to him, but couldn’t.
Could things get any worse? She’d slept with a stranger and got pregnant—please let him not have been married!
A question that might have been better asked before you ripped off his shirt
.
Ignoring the sly insert of her conscience or what was left of it, Izzy touched a protective hand to her nape.
Nothing in his expression had suggested he even recognised her. Was it really possible he didn’t remember their night together? Or maybe he might have developed a convenient amnesia to avoid embarrassment. If so should she play along with it? Everything in Izzy rebelled against the idea.
Why was she torturing herself? He might feel even worse and as embarrassed about that night as she was, sitting there now wondering if she was a potential bunny boiler about to mess up his life.
If so he’d feel relieved when he realised she didn’t want anything from him. Rich men could be pretty protective of their wealth and she could recall now the word billionaire coming into the conversation when the family had discussed Rory’s good fortune at securing a placement within the Petrelli company.
Great, she couldn’t have had a one-night stand with a teacher or a plumber. No, she had to pick out a billionaire Italian!
At the end of the ceremony Izzy got to her feet when everyone else did, clutching her daughter to her chest. She slung a furtive look over her shoulders but chickened out at the last minute and tucked herself in between Rory and Emma in the slow-moving file of guests leaving the church, doing her best
With the rest of the congregation Izzy rose to her feet. Were his eyes trained on the exposed nape of her neck or was it her guilty conscience that made her skin prickle and tingle? Tingle the way his long fingers had once made her—she pushed the thought away and took a deep breath. With Lily on one hip, she stared blankly at the service sheet clutched in her free hand, knowing she was a whisper away from tipping over into outright gibbering panic.
She had to stay calm.
She had to think.
The father of her baby was sitting behind her. What was she meant to do now?
Take a leaf out of her mother’s book and write him a letter?
Casually drop into the conversation,
Oh, by the way, this is your daughter
? Now that would be a real ice breaker, but could it be listed under small talk?
She choked on a bubble of hysterical laughter, the sound drowned out by the hymn being sung.
Realistically Izzy knew, always had known, that should this unlikely event occur she had to accept the real possibility that he might not even remember that night two years ago. So maybe doing nothing was a possibility? Just wait and if he said nothing leave it …?
She reluctantly discarded the tempting idea. This was Lily’s father. What had Rory called him … Roman? Atleast she had a name now and knew that he was Italian, although she’d already had an idea about his nationality. During their night together he had whispered wonderful things to her in throes of passion; she might not have understood the things he had said, but she had recognised the language.
She remembered everything.
She tried to push away the hot, erotic images crowding in—she had to focus.
On what, Izzy—your impending public humiliation?
Her chin lifted. She would take what was coming, but not Lily. She would protect Lily.
Lily, who looked so like her father, which was good news for her because she’d grow up to be the female version of him—stunning—but bad news because surely everyone seeing them together would know.
And he’d seen Lily.
He had to know!
Was he sitting there in shock?
No point speculating; she just had to stay calm and play this by ear. A wedding was hardly the place to introduce a man to his daughter.
Was there a good place?
He might be here with his girlfriend or wife even …! Feeling sick now, Izzy closed her eyes and tried to remember who had been sitting next to him, but couldn’t.
Could things get any worse? She’d slept with a stranger and got pregnant—please let him not have been married!
A question that might have been better asked before you ripped off his shirt
.
Ignoring the sly insert of her conscience or what was left of it, Izzy touched a protective hand to her nape.
Nothing in his expression had suggested he even recognised her. Was it really possible he didn’t remember their night together? Or maybe he might have developed a convenient amnesia to avoid embarrassment. If so should she play along with it? Everything in Izzy rebelled against the idea.
Why was she torturing herself? He might feel even worse and as embarrassed about that night as she was, sitting there now wondering if she was a potential bunny boiler about to mess up his life.
If so he’d feel relieved when he realised she didn’t want anything from him. Rich men could be pretty protective of their wealth and she could recall now the word billionaire coming into the conversation when the family had discussed Rory’s good fortune at securing a placement within the Petrelli company.
Great, she couldn’t have had a one-night stand with a teacher or a plumber. No, she had to pick out a billionaire Italian!
At the end of the ceremony Izzy got to her feet when everyone else did, clutching her daughter to her chest. She slung a furtive look over her shoulders but chickened out at the last minute and tucked herself in between Rory and Emma in the slow-moving file of guests leaving the church, doing her best