His Brand of Passion (6 page)

Zoe set out plates and glasses with no idea of what to expect. Would Aaron be joining her for dinner? Were they actually going to sit down and have a meal together, like some bizarre, instant happy family?

Despite her decadent afternoon, she felt exhausted. Maintaining a cheerfully insouciant facade—for she knew that was all it was—with Aaron was emotionally and physically draining. But it was also armour, a way to protect herself. To show him she wasn’t bothered by this unusual living arrangement, that she wasn’t remembering how he’d taken her right on that rug, with the lights of the city streaming over them. How for a moment, when he’d been inside her, she’d looked into his eyes and felt far more emotion than she ever wanted to feel…Even as she craved that connection once more.

Thankfully the intercom buzzed, calling a halt to that unhelpful line of thinking. By the time Aaron came out of his bedroom she was opening the steaming cartons of fragrant Chinese food, inhaling the blissful aroma of pork lo mein.

‘You look like you’ve just died and gone to heaven.’

‘It feels like it,’ she admitted, and couldn’t resist eating a forkful of noodles right from the carton. ‘And normally I don’t even like Chinese food.’

Aaron let out a rusty laugh. ‘Those pregnancy hormones must be something.’

‘I guess so.’ She swallowed and smiled. ‘What do you like? We have the lo mein, General Tsao’s chicken, moo shoo pork…’

The slight smile that had softened Aaron’s features disappeared and he reached for a plate. ‘I’ll just have a bit of everything. And I’ll eat in my study. I have work to do.’

Zoe felt the words like a rejection—and one she wasn’t prepared to accept. ‘You’ve been working all day,’ she said mildly. ‘And, not to sound like a nagging wife, but I’m not going to last if I have to stay in this morgue of an apartment by myself twenty-four-seven.’

Aaron frowned more in perplexity than irritation. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I think we can manage to eat dinner together,’ Zoe said lightly. ‘And, in any case, I want to talk to you about your decor.’

The look of patent disbelief on his face was both funny and satisfying, Zoe decided. ‘My decor? Are you serious?’

‘Completely.’ She took her plate over to the sofa and sat down cross-legged, slurping another forkful of noodles before she resumed. ‘I want to get some more things from my apartment.’ His eyes widened and she held up one placatory hand. ‘Don’t freak, this isn’t a permanent measure. But I like my things. They’re
colourful.’

‘I wasn’t freaking,’ Aaron answered as he sat across from her, his own plate balanced in his lap.

‘An eye flare is freaking for you,’ Zoe tossed back. ‘You are the master of control.’

‘Now that’s a compliment.’

‘In your world, maybe.’ She realised she was enjoying this banter, and the smile that twitched Aaron’s lips made her heart sing. ‘Anyway, back to the decor thing. I need to get some things from my apartment.’

‘I can have someone take care of that.’

‘I’d like to do it myself. God only knows what one of your minions would pick out.’

Aaron raised his eyebrows. ‘My minions?’

‘I need to go through it and see what I can bring back here. Not too much, just a few more paintings and things.’

She watched him process this, wondered how alarming it was for him to have her moving more of her stuff in. And, while it made sense, Zoe knew she was pushing just a little. She didn’t really want to examine why.

‘Fine,’ Aaron said after a moment. ‘I’ll arrange a car and driver. But I don’t want you to exert yourself. No lifting things.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She smiled, his concern warming her heart—even if it shouldn’t. He was just dealing with the situation. She was the one painting rainbows.

Three days later Zoe sat at a table in the East Village’s community centre art-room, watching as Robert, a very self-contained boy of six, surveyed the materials she’d set out.

‘What do you feel like doing today, Robert?’ she asked gently. ‘Crayons, markers, paints?’ Robert had been coming to the centre for nearly a month, ever since his dad had walked out without any warning and hadn’t been in touch since. He had barely spoken, had never touched the art materials, yet his mother kept bringing him in the hope that something would ease the pain he held so tightly inside.

‘Maybe you could try a mandala today,’ Zoe suggested, taking one of the simple designs of curved shapes that children often found soothing to colour. She placed it in front of
him and Robert stared down at it silently for a few seconds before he finally selected a crayon and began to carefully colour in the shapes.

Zoe watched him, occasionally making some encouraging observation, when about halfway through Robert thrust his crayon away and reached for a black marker. She watched him in silence as he vehemently scribbled black marker all over the paper, obscuring the careful design. When the page was nearly all black, ripped in some parts from the force of his scribbling, he put the marker back in the jar and sat back, seemingly satisfied.

Zoe rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Sometimes we feel like that, don’t we?’ she said quietly. In truth she could relate to Robert’s deliberate destruction. There was your life, all carefully set out in pleasing shapes, and something happened that cancelled it all out, scribbled over your careful planning.

Robert had felt like that when his father had upped and left. And Zoe felt like that now, pregnant and alone. Despite the friendliness of that first evening, Aaron seemed determined to avoid her whenever possible. Zoe had tried to draw him out, but the emotional effort exhausted her. She didn’t want to have to try so hard. She wanted something to be easy, she acknowledged ruefully. But there was nothing easy about Aaron Bryant.

That morning she’d taken a few more things from her apartment, pangs of both worry and regret assailing her as she had looked around the space she’d made her own, now empty and forlorn. A few weeks ago she’d had a home, a life, had been in control of her own destiny. Now she felt as if she were spinning in a void of unknowing and uncertainty.

Kind of like Robert felt now. She reached for a large piece of paper and the finger paints. ‘Maybe,’ she suggested, ‘you’d like to do something messy?’ The little boy was almost unbearably
neat. ‘Mess is okay here, you know. Everything washes off.’

He hesitated and she opened the paint pots, waited with a smile. A second later he carefully dipped one finger in the yellow paint and drew a single, cautious line on the paper, like a ray of sunlight. Zoe murmured something encouraging.

It was a start to unlocking the little boy’s pain, to freeing those tightly held parts of himself. And she needed to start, too. She wasn’t going to drift through the next few weeks like some desperate ghost. That had never been her style, even if men tended to bring out clinginess in her. She wouldn’t be clingy with Aaron; she’d be in control. She’d claim her life back, even if it wasn’t on the terms she really wanted.

She spent the rest of the afternoon arranging some of her things in Aaron’s apartment, nerves battling with determination. She ordered Indian—she was methodically working through the takeaways—and set the table for two. Aaron made it home for dinner most evenings, and he almost seemed to enjoy the chatter she kept up resolutely, even if he sometimes seemed bewildered by the whole concept: dinner. Conversation. Company.

The lift doors swooshed open and Zoe turned. ‘Hey there,’ she said brightly and watched as Aaron’s gaze moved around the apartment, taking in the plants lining the window sill and the two paintings she’d put on the walls, replacing some of the soulless modern atrocities he’d had hanging there. One canvas had been six feet of blank white with a single black splodge in the corner. Ridiculous.

‘I see you’ve made yourself at home,’ he said neutrally and Zoe gave him a teasing smile.

‘I warned you, didn’t I? At least this place has some colour.’

He stopped in front of an oil painting of a jar of lilacs on
a kitchen table. The paint had been used liberally, creating, Zoe hoped, a messy yet welcoming feel.

‘This is rather good, I suppose,’ he said, sounding a bit grudging, and he turned to Zoe. ‘Who’s the artist?’

‘Oh…no one famous.’ She felt herself blush.

Aaron arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, I didn’t think it was Van Gogh. Is it a friend of yours?’

‘Umm… It’s mine, actually.’ Both of the paintings were, and she suddenly realised how arrogant it might seem to hang her own art on his walls. She hadn’t thought of that at the time; she just liked to be reminded of what she’d done, what she was capable of.

‘I thought you were an art therapist, not an artist,’ Aaron said, his brow furrowed, and Zoe shrugged.

‘One’s a profession, one’s a hobby.’

‘Did you ever want to be a professional artist?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t really have what it takes. In any case, I like helping people.’ She saw him frowning at her, as if she were a puzzle he didn’t understand.

‘I should work tonight,’ he said abruptly, and Zoe’s heart sank. Another night in front of the TV alone.

‘Don’t you get tired of working? It’s practically all you do.’

‘It’s necessary.’

‘Is it?’ She kept her voice teasing. ‘Will the company fall apart if you’re not at the helm every second of the day, fingers twitching on your phone?’

Aaron’s mouth tightened. ‘It might,’ he answered, and Zoe realised he was serious. Good grief, talk about a God complex.

‘What happens when you get sick? Or go on vacation?’

‘I don’t.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re heading for a heart attack by the time you’re forty.’

‘Considering that’s next year, I hope not.’ He gave her the
ghost of a smile. ‘But thanks for the concern.’ He took his plate, clearly ready to bury himself in his office. Again. Zoe took a breath and plunged.

‘Aaron…how is a baby going to fit into your life, when it’s like this?’

He stilled, slowly turned around. ‘Surely we don’t need to talk about that now?’

‘Don’t we? I know everything is still uncertain, but we need to think about the future. How it’s going to work.’

‘It will work,’ he said tautly, and she shook her head.

‘A baby isn’t an item on your agenda, Aaron. It’s a life commitment—’

‘A week or so ago you didn’t even want me involved,’ he said shortly. ‘Now you’re talking about life commitments?’

Stung, she drew back. ‘You’re the one who said you wanted to be involved. I’m just trying to figure out how it will work.’

‘It will work,’ he repeated, and Zoe knew that was all he had: sheer determination and bull-headed arrogance.

‘Why did you change your mind?’ she blurted, because now she needed to know. ‘Less than two weeks ago you would have paid me a large amount of money to have an abortion.’

‘Are you ever going to let that go?’

‘It’s kind of a big one.’

‘I know that.’ He raked a hand through his hair and Zoe could see the lines of fatigue drawn from nose to mouth.

‘What made you want this baby?’ she asked quietly.

Aaron didn’t answer for a long moment. Zoe couldn’t tell a thing from his face, his eyes so dark and fathomless, the lines of his cheek and jaw harsh and strong in the dim light.

‘I wouldn’t have chosen this,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s hardly an ideal situation for anyone. But I could see that you were determined to keep this baby, and if a child of mine was going to enter the world…’ He paused, his gaze distant. ‘Then I wanted to be involved.’

Zoe said nothing. She felt an almost crushing sense of disappointment, which was ridiculous. What had she expected? that Aaron had had some miraculous epiphany, realised he actually wanted to be a father, a family? No, of course not. Nothing in his behaviour in the few days had indicated anything but that he was making the best of a difficult situation.

‘So,’ she finally said. ‘You’d still prefer me to have an abortion?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Aaron said, irritation edging his voice. ‘If I did, I would have offered that instead of having you come live with me.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ Zoe said quietly and Aaron shrugged.

‘I’m not asking you to.’

The rebuff was brutal, even though it shouldn’t even have surprised her. Of course he wasn’t asking for such a thing. This domestic arrangement had nothing to do with their relationship or what little of it there was, Zoe reminded herself. That was clear from how rarely she’d seen Aaron since she’d come here, how much effort she’d had to put in to getting him to so much as sit with her for a meal.

‘Maybe I should just go,’ she said, and felt her throat thicken with humiliating tears. ‘I haven’t had any bleeding since that first time, and I can’t lie around all day.’

‘You’re not lying around all day,’ Aaron pointed out, an edge to his voice. ‘You’re working every afternoon.’

‘You don’t really want me here,’ she forced herself to say. ‘Do you?’

Another long, taut silence, and then Aaron finally spoke, the words dragged from him with obvious reluctance. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’

She tried for flippancy. ‘You have a funny way of showing it.’

‘I know I do.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Look, Zoe,
I’m not good with emotions or feelings or even talking about…anything. I admit that. But I don’t want you to go. I like having you here, knowing you’re safe and cared for.’ He paused and she saw a surprising vulnerability creep across his face, soften those stern features if only for a moment. ‘Maybe the best solution is to make this…more permanent.’

‘More permanent?’ she repeated in disbelief. ‘How?’

He took a breath, let it out. ‘You stay here, with me, for the duration of your pregnancy.’

Z
OE DIDN
’
T SPEAK
for a few seconds; she was still processing what Aaron had just said.
You stay here, with me, for the duration of your pregnancy
. Finally she said the first, the only, word she could.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because…’ Her mind grasped at reasons he would understand, that she could admit to.
It’s impossible. Dangerous. I might fall in love with you
. ‘I just can’t.’

‘Can’t?’ he repeated. ‘Or won’t?’

‘Both.’

‘Why not?’ He sounded so reasonable, so unruffled, and she felt as if she were falling apart. Aaron’s suggestion, so calmly made, had rocked her to the core.

‘Why should I?’ she countered, knowing she sounded childish.

‘It’s not practical for you to live in some walk-up studio alone—climbing all those stairs.’

‘I’ll get a ground-floor apartment,’ Zoe said numbly.

‘Never mind that. What if something happened to you? Who would even know? As far as I can tell, you’ve lived a very independent, isolated existence.’

‘I like being independent,’ she snapped. She’d ignore the
‘isolated’ bit. ‘Anyway, what about you? I think that’s the pot calling the kettle black.’

‘I don’t deny it,’ Aaron answered evenly. ‘But I’m not pregnant.’

‘Being pregnant doesn’t mean being ill,’ Zoe flung at him and his silence was eloquent. ‘You don’t want me here,’ she said, daring him to deny it.
I like having you here
. She forced the memory of his reluctant confession away. Not helpful now, when she was trying to be strong.

‘I just said I did,’ Aaron answered, his voice taut.

‘Just because you want to manage me.’

‘Do the reasons really matter?’
Yes
. She swallowed, said nothing. Aaron sighed impatiently. ‘Why are you so against it? It seems like an obvious and easy solution to me. You’ve already got your stuff here.’ He swept one arm out towards her paintings, the wilting ficus plant. ‘You still have your life. I’ve arranged a car for you to go to your little art sessions.’

‘My little art sessions,’ Zoe repeated numbly and Aaron sighed again.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I know exactly what you mean. And that’s the problem, Aaron. That’s the prison.’

His mouth turned down and his eyes flashed darkly. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’re the prison,’ she said hopelessly, because she knew it sounded melodramatic and he wouldn’t understand anyway.

He didn’t. ‘That’s nonsense.’

‘It’s not. You have no idea what it’s like living here with someone who barely wants to talk to you.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Who escapes at the first opportunity.’

‘I do not.’

‘And hides behind work.’

‘I’m not
hiding!’
he thundered, the sound of his voice
seeming to echo through the room and making Zoe fall silent. He let out an exasperated breath and raked a hand through his hair. ‘Just what do you want from me, Zoe? Because I don’t think it’s something I have to give.’

‘That’s a great way to open a conversation.’

‘I was trying to close it down,’ Aaron snapped and Zoe shook her head.

‘There’s no point, is there?’

‘Point to what?’

He looked so exasperated, so impatient, impervious and
blank
, and she knew he didn’t get it at all. What was there even to get? What was she trying to prove here—that he didn’t like her, wasn’t interested in her other than as the mother of his unwanted child?
Obviously
.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, all her fight and spunk gone in an instant, leaving only a weary despair. ‘I don’t know anything. I don’t know why you want me here, what the future will look like, how you’ll fit a baby into your life, never mind—’ She stopped suddenly.
Never mind me
. Except he wasn’t trying to fit her into his life—something else that was obvious.

Aaron didn’t speak for a long moment. His irritation had gone, and he looked as weary as Zoe felt. ‘Tell me what will make this work.’

She knew he meant it this time, knew this was how he operated. Life was simply a matter of function and success. But at least he was trying, at least he was waiting for her answer. She needed to try, too.

‘I need more from you,’ she said, and almost could have laughed at Aaron’s involuntary recoil. ‘I’m not asking for you to hold my hand or tuck me in bed.’ She should not have mentioned bed. Or holding. Or even hands. because everything made her think of how he’d felt on top of her, inside her. Touching her, loving her—except, stupid Zoe, because
what had happened between them had had absolutely
nothing
to do with love.

‘We need to figure out some kind of working relationship,’ she clarified. ‘If we’re going to be involved in this together, as parents-to-be, never mind actual
parents—’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Aaron cut her off and Zoe nodded. One step at a time. One
minute
at a time.

‘But even now, Aaron. I can’t tiptoe around you. It’ll drive me crazy.’

‘I wasn’t aware you were doing any tiptoeing,’ he said dryly, and she let out a brief laugh of acknowledgement.

‘All I’m asking for—and I know it might seem impossible, considering who we are—but can we try to get along? Be friends of a sort?’

He stared at her for a long moment, long enough for Zoe to feel like what she’d asked was impossible…at least for Aaron. And maybe it was for her, too. Contrary person that she was, half of her wanted to fall in love with him and the other half wanted to hate him. Typical.

‘I hardly think it’s impossible,’ he said at last, and she couldn’t tell a thing from his tone.

‘That means,’ Zoe explained, ‘we have conversations. We eat dinner together—willingly. We ask about each other’s day.’

‘We paint each other’s nails?’

She smothered a smile. ‘That’s the second joke you’ve made.’

‘You must be having an influence on me.’

‘Well, then?’ she asked quietly. ‘Could you do that? Could you try?’

Aaron let out a sigh. ‘And if I do, will that be enough? Will you stay here willingly, for your pregnancy, and not complain or fight me every step of the way?’

‘I’ll try,’ she said and his mouth quirked in a small smile,
lightening his features and making her realise how rarely he smiled. How much she wanted him to.

‘Then we’ll both try,’ he said, and held out his hand. ‘Deal?’

She took his hand and let it enfold hers, felt the warmth and strength of it all the way through her. ‘Deal,’ she answered back.

How the hell was this supposed to work? Aaron stared moodily at the screen of his laptop as he mentally reviewed last night’s conversation with Zoe. So he was just supposed to ask about her day? Eat at the same time? Instinctively Aaron knew Zoe wanted more than that. She wanted…what? A companion? A friend?

And Aaron didn’t know how to be a friend. He didn’t
have
any friends. He had employees, colleagues, acquaintances, siblings. None of them were friends. He’d been too private, too focused on work, too afraid of showing his weaknesses.

So how was he supposed to be a friend to Zoe?

He exhaled in an impatient sigh, resenting everything about this situation. Yet what could he have done instead? Installed Zoe in a separate apartment, he supposed, with staff. Instinctively he recoiled against such an idea, knowing she would hate it. He didn’t like it much, either. She made him anxious, angry and impatient, yet he’d meant what he said. He liked having her around. He liked the sound of her laugh, the bright art on the walls, the feeling that he wasn’t alone.

Good Lord
. What was happening to him? And how did he make it stop?

He was still pondering the whole problem in his car on the way back to the apartment, the windows open to the warm, early-autumn air. His unseeing gaze suddenly focused on a shop sign and he pressed the button for the intercom.

‘Stop the car, please.’

Fifteen minutes later he was entering the penthouse, bag
in hand. Zoe lay on the sofa, a magazine sliding from her loosened fingers, clearly asleep.

He watched her for a moment, saw how her dark lashes feathered her cheeks, her lush lips parted softly on a sigh. Her hair was tousled and spread across the sofa pillows, dark and lustrous. She looked like something out of a fairy tale, he thought suddenly, like a princess who would be wakened by a kiss.

And he wanted to be the prince that kissed her.

Not that he would. He didn’t even move. Getting physically involved with Zoe at this point was dangerous. Physically dangerous, considering the state of her pregnancy, and emotionally dangerous, as well. Not for him—hell, he barely had emotions. But for her…He didn’t want to complicate their situation any more than necessary. Even if right now it seemed like the most appealing thing to do.

Zoe’s eyes fluttered open then and she blinked sleepily. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’

Aaron felt a smile tug at this mouth, his heart inexplicably lightening. ‘Clearly.’

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s what you’re here for. To rest.’

‘Yes, but…’ She struggled up to a seated position. ‘I had dinner warming. I ordered Thai this time. I felt like sticky rice.’

‘All these cravings.’

‘I know. Crazy.’

He walked to the kitchen and peered in the oven where several foil cartons were warming. ‘I’ll dish it out,’ he offered and was rewarded with a cautious smile.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, he thought as he ladled rice and vegetables onto two plates. Maybe Zoe just wanted a little conversation, a little company. Maybe he could handle that.

He came back with the plates and handed one to Zoe. She
took it with a murmured thanks, her feet tucked up under her, her cheeks flushed. She looked pretty, he thought. Rosy and even blooming. Wasn’t that what you said about pregnant women? Like flowers.

‘What did you get up to today?’ he asked after a few minutes of silence. He was conscious of how awkward he felt, making small talk. He didn’t do chit-chat. He gave orders, he listened to reports, he got things done. He shifted in his seat and ate another forkful of rice.

‘Not much,’ Zoe answered with a sigh. ‘I went for a short walk, I read a book, I planned my lesson for tomorrow and then I fell asleep.’

‘You’re bored,’ Aaron said, and he could hardly blame her.

‘Out of my mind.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I like being busy. I know it might not be reasonable to work on my feet at the café all day, but I need something more to do.’

As always Aaron went for solutions. ‘Could you take on more hours with the art therapy?’

She shook her head. ‘There’s so little funding for it already. I’d love to do it full-time, but budgets are being slashed left and right.’

‘What is art therapy, exactly?’

Her eyes glinted mischievously. ‘My little art sessions? Technically it’s the therapeutic use of art-making.’

‘Which is?’

‘Using art as a form of communication and healing for a variety of situations. I work with children who have usually experienced some kind of difficulty—whether it’s a death, divorce or some trauma in their family.’

‘And they just…draw pictures?’

‘I know it probably sounds like a waste of time to you.’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth,’ Aaron answered, although frankly it did. How could scribbling on some paper be of any help to anyone, child or adult?

‘Sometimes,’ Zoe said quietly, ‘it’s easier to express yourself through art than through words, especially for a child.’

‘I suppose,’ he allowed, and she gave him a small smile, as if she knew how sceptical he was. She probably did. ‘You should try it. You seem to have enough trouble expressing your emotions.’

He tensed, then strove to stay light. ‘Are you actually analysing me?’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’ She spoke as lightly as he had, but he knew she was serious and he prickled with discomfort. ‘Why is it so hard for you, Aaron? Why did you tell me you weren’t good at speaking about feelings—or anything?’ She cocked her head, sympathy in her studious gaze. ‘Were you not encouraged to do so as a child?’

‘Is that what the textbooks say?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s usually a fairly good guess.’

He really didn’t want to talk about himself. He never did. Yet he also knew he’d hurt Zoe if he tried to brush her off now; even that realisation surprised him. Since when did he consider anyone’s feelings at all? ‘I guess I wasn’t,’ he said after a moment, as if it were no matter. And really, it wasn’t. ‘We weren’t ever a close family.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t really know. My father was busy—elsewhere.’ With his mistresses, but Aaron didn’t want to reveal that much.

‘And your mother?’

‘Stop the interrogation, Zoe.’ He heard an edge to his voice. ‘I’m not one of your patients.’

Her eyes darkened but she smiled in rueful acknowledgement. ‘Sorry. Habit, I guess.’

‘I don’t need therapy,’ Aaron said, trying to make a joke of it even though he still felt on edge. ‘And certainly not art therapy. I can’t even draw stick figures.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ She shook her head and smiled, although he suspected it took some effort. ‘I suppose I’ll never make a convert of you.’

‘Do you want to?’

‘It would be nice if you respected what I did,’ she answered, eyebrows raised, and Aaron grimaced.

‘I’m afraid I’m too much of a literalist. I like firm results—tangible, quantifiable proof.’

‘Life doesn’t always work that way.’

He shook his head. ‘Mine does.’

She stared at him, her head cocked to one side, her gaze sweeping slowly, thoughtfully over him in a way Aaron didn’t like. ‘And you don’t feel like you’re missing out on something, living like that?’

‘No, I don’t. I get results. Quantifiable success.’

‘And healing isn’t quantifiable,’ Zoe surmised. ‘Is it? Or happiness?’

‘No, they aren’t.’

She stared at him again and he felt everything inside him tense, resisting the very nature of this conversation, this
intimacy
.

‘Are you happy, Aaron?’

Damn it, he did not want her to ask questions like that. He most certainly didn’t want to answer them. ‘What’s happy?’ he said, dismissive, gruff, and she smiled wryly.