Sinclair makes a low rumbling sound, “I don’t want to talk about Lydia anymore. I just want to be here with you and this little one.”
I pull my hand away, sensing I’ve crossed a line. It worries me that he won’t answer me, but I prefer his silence over untruths or empty platitudes. Besides, he told me he wasn’t going to get back together with Lydia, and I don’t feel confident enough with him to press my luck on the matter. I know the look of a man who’s said all he’s going to say on a subject, and if I keep pushing he’ll just double down. There will be time to talk about her more in the future.
Sinclair, meanwhile, is gazing at all the bedding piled around my body. “It’s only eight o’clock.” He reminds me, his brow wrinkling with concern when he realizes I’m still wearing my feast dress.
