Read Online Hooked Up: Book 2 by Arianne Richmonde - Free Book Online

be an idiot you hardly know him , voice made me stop chewing for a minute. When I had pointed out what he’d done, he’d just laughed and said, “And what’s so terrible about you getting pregnant? I think a baby would be a wonderful addition, don’t you?” I’d been so stunned I didn’t know what to say except, “you’re not HIV positive, are you?” He laughed again and said that no, he’d had a test only six months ago and that the last person he’d had relations with was a recently widowed woman who hadn’t even done it with her husband for the two years previously, let alone anyone else. Then I told him that the chances of getting pregnant at my age were very slim, and that even if I did manage, I’d probably have a miscarriage, as that is what had happened to me before with my ex. He looked pensive when I said that, squinted his eyes as if he needed to find some sort of solution, and then said, “no, we can’t have that, a miscarriage won’t do at all.” Was this the Latin man-must-sow-his-seed thing, I wondered? Or does he seriously want my baby ? I couldn’t believe a man so young would consider getting tied in with a family. Certainly American men weren’t keen for that at age twenty-five—most were commitment phobes.
    Perhaps he didn’t want a family at all, but various replicas of himself running about the world—a woman, as my brother had reminded me, in every port. Children in every port too? He could afford child maintenance, so why ever not?

ALEXANDRE
    I KNEW WHEN Pearl woke up the following day in our bedroom in Provence (note how I say our bedroom—yes, it was getting that serious), she would be enchanted. The lavender fields were in full bloom, the scent of jasmine was also wafting through the French doors which looked out onto the stunning view below.
    Who wouldn’t fall in love with an old stone farmhouse in the middle of the French countryside? In the olden days, in the South of France, people built their own houses stone by stone, getting friends and family to help them. A far cry from the multi-million dollar properties they have become nowadays. When I restored my house, I wanted to pay attention to each stone, bring out the beauty and detail of the workmanship—the sheer labor of what they had achieved by hand (no machines), all that time ago. So I left it exactly the way it was originally; crooked walls, wobbly oak beams, wonky floors. I kept all of its charm, just added a swimming pool. Not a Hollywood-style pool—no bright blue or anything. I wanted it to look as if it had always been there and blend in with the landscape, organically.
    I woke up early that morning as I had house business to attend to—I needed to ensure that the elderly couple (who look after it when I’m away) had everything under control, and that the garden was in order. I wanted to let Pearl rise and shine on her own—soak up her new surroundings. I’d instructed Madame Menager to take her up some breakfast, while I took care of a few business and personal phone calls.
    Last but not least, Laura, my ex. As I stood by the pool, white butterflies darting by me, the gentle sound of water tinkling from the fountain, I called her on my cell.
    As I expected, she was not too thrilled.
    “Laura,” I began, “how are things?”
    She had ears like a bat. “Is that your fountain I hear by the pool? Are you in Provence?”
    “Yes, I am,” I replied evenly.
    “Alex, you promised!”
    “No, actually, I didn’t.”
    “I said you should wait for me! How long are you there for? I’ll get on a flight today.”
    “Laura, no.” I walked slowly from the pool area into the house and sat down on the sofa in the living room, where coffee, fresh-baked brioche and croissants awaited me. I spread some homemade jam I’d concocted myself (from my very own cherry trees) onto a croissant and took a large bite. I was half listening to Laura and her protestations and wondering what Pearl’s reaction would be when