Going on a short break holiday with Charlotte Delaney was all kinds of weird, not least because I've never been away with a woman before. I think it was the private plane that made the whole thing surreal, as well as having free reign over a vineyard in the South of France. After having the go-ahead from Ben Copeland that we could fly and not harm the baby, Charlotte was quick to make arrangements so that we could depart London as soon as possible.

There were quite a few things for Charlotte to sort out but for me, my major concern was Martha. Being shy of eighteen, I didn't want her to be left no her own; I'd like to think that this was because I'm a responsible father but really it's because I don't want to come back in a few days' time to a home that's burnt down and a daughter locked up in jail for arson, or something along those lines. There weren't many people that I could trust to watch Martha like a hawk, but I knew exactly who was at the bottom of my list- Sophie Whitaker, Charlotte's sister.

Sophie and I have a strained relationship, mainly because she's a bloody psychopath, and it was for that reason that I didn't want my daughter around Sophie. I trust Dan to keep Martha in line but he's easily influenced by his wife, so that was a no go. Sam could have done the job bar for the fact that Martha would eat him alive. Charlotte offered to send Martha to Dublin for the week to stay with her grandmother, Harlow Delaney. I swiftly said, "Hell fucking no," and left it at that. What type of father exposes their child to that kind of mental instability? At least I know where Sophie gets her loose marbles from. Jimmy and Camille Delaney offered to take Martha in, however, once they'd spent more than a few hours with her, they soon conveniently remembered that they had booked a short city break and couldn't babysit Martha after all. Elias and Jenna Marshall didn't want to expose their nine-year-old daughter, Nola, to Martha's antics, so they were off the list, too.

That left me with one person. Michael Taylor.

Now, Mick isn't one of my closest friends for nothing. We've been through so many things together that I sometimes think he's an extension of me, but he's also one of the few people I would trust my life. He's the only one of my friends that knew about Martha long before everyone else and when I found out that Charlotte was pregnant, it wasn't Dan, Sam or Elias I turned to; it was Mick. We barely hang out because of work commitments and stuff but whenever we do meet up, whether at Poker night or at the pub, it's like we've never been apart. It's rare to have a friend like that, just as it's also rare to have a friend that would be willing to keep an eye on Martha for a week.

"Is she ok?" I ask Mick when I get time during the day to call him. Charlotte and I have been in Lambesc for a few days already and have been busy sightseeing and whatnot but I always make sure that I check in back home, make sure that Martha is still a) alive, and b) not in prison. "Did she stick to her curfew last night? Don't be afraid to Alcatraz her if she isn't listening to you."

Mick laughs. "I have a question for you. Why is it, when you're in France with the woman of your dreams, are you calling me every fucking night, asking how your almost adult daughter is doing?"

"You ask me this every time I call," I grumbled.

"If you don't like it, stop calling," he rationalises, much to my annoyance. I hate it when people use logic against me. In the background of the call, I hear something smash and a woman's voice shriek. "Ah, shit buckets. Hey, Fletch, I have to go. Martha just smashed a casserole dish."

"Make her clean it up and pay for a replacement!" I shout down the line, seconds before it goes dead.

All I can hear once the phone call is over is the sound of birds chirping and the branches of a nearby olive tree rustling in the wind. It's extremely peaceful here, especially when your closest neighbour is a mile from you, and I can't help but smile at how simple the last few days has been between Charlotte and me.

When I'm focused on what's happening here and not what's happening at home, I've been basking in the time spent with Lottie, just her and I. On our first day, she made sure to drag me around the surrounding area, showing me all the things that Aix-en-Provence had to offer, pointing out everything of interest. Her enthusiasm for France and the small commune was infectious and despite my limited grasp of French, I was doing rather well on the communication front. The locals were very patient with me, although I know they were only doing it because of who Lottie is. They love her here, almost as much as I do.

Yesterday, we spent the day walking around the vineyard, picking some grapes for the wine and just generally making small talk as we caught the sun rays against our skin. Lottie made a joke about the fact that I tanned so easily while she was always going to be on the 'pasty' side. She wished that the baby would be blessed with my skin tone, no matter if the child is a boy or girl.

I was half tempted to let the cat out of the bag regarding the sex of the baby, but that was one rabbit hole that I did not want to fall down. How could I tell her that I knew the baby's gender when I'd been the one steadfastly stating that I didn't want to know? In my defence, I didn't want to know, but when you spend most of your days looking at scans of babies, you can spot a penis on an ultrasound scan from miles away. Not that we're having a boy. Not that we're having a girl, either. God, I really need to be careful that I don't use a gender specific pronoun in front of Lottie, or anyone, in fact.

That's how I've come to refer to the baby as Nugget. It's all-inclusive and won't land me in anyone's bad books.

Not the point, though. As I was saying, we had a very relaxing day yesterday and today we'd been out on the road again. I have to say, Lottie is a much better driver in France than she is in England. I've never experienced road rage like it when she drives in London, it's really quite scary. Here, though, she's as calm as anything. Not once did she let a curse word slip from her lips. It was really strange.

"Hey, Isaac!" Lottie calls me from the terrace just outside the living room. She's reclining on a wooden sun lounger, sunglasses covering her eyes. I walk out the patio doors and join her, picking up my drink from the small table that separates us and sipping it. Charlotte smirks when she sees me grimace. "How's the non-alcoholic beer treating you?"

"As well as the non-alcoholic wine is treating you, I guess," I quip, liking the way Lottie scowls at me. For the past few days, having been surrounded by wine at every turn, Lottie's been craving the alcoholic beverage but with her being pregnant, she can't touch a drop. To show some solidarity, I decided that I wouldn't drink either. I wish I'd known how vile this beer was before I offered to do that. "What are you yelling at me for?"

Lottie smiles and waves the baby name book at me. "I've cracked it!" She enthusiastically says, squirming from the excitement. "I've picked our daughter's name. Want to hear it? Ok, ok, stop badgering me, I'll tell you. Edith."

"Edith?"

"Edie, for short, of course," Lottie says, rolling her eyes. "It goes well with Martha. Martha and Edith. See?"

I frowned. I know that we'd agreed that if we were to have a girl, Lottie could name the baby and if we had a boy, I would name him, but there was no chance in hell was I going to have any daughter of mine walk this earth with a name like Edith. Plus, Edith Delaney was an old lady's name and no amount of cute nicknames, like Edie, was going to change that.

Anyway, Lawson Delaney for the win.

"You don't like it?" Lottie turned her head to look at me. She pushed her sunglasses off her nose and slid them up onto her head, her blue gaze narrowing on mine. "What's wrong with Edith? We could always go with the French pronunciation, eh-deet."

"We're just not going with Edith in general," I tell her, hopefully leaving no room for arguments. "Edith Delaney is just so... old."

Lottie bit down on her lip and began to chew on it, a trait I noticed her exhibiting whenever she was pondering saying something or not. "Well," she eventually speaks, "it's a good thing she wouldn't be Edith Delaney then."

"Huh?"

This is one thing that we've not discussed yet, although I've been dying to raise the topic for a while now. Charlotte and I aren't married, which means that she is under no obligation to give the baby my family name. Deep down inside, I hoped that she would allow the baby to take my name but I didn't dare presume that would be the case. Now that she's mentioning it, this would be my chance to find out once and for all if our child was going to be a Delaney or a Fletcher.

"She'd be Edith Fletcher," Lottie announces. She waits for a reaction, which duly comes when a grin the size of Chine stretches across my face. She laughs. "Yeah, I thought you might like that. Although now you've mentioned it, Edith Fletcher sounds old, too. Damn it, I'm going to have to think of a backup name. What about you, did you choose your name yet?"

I nod. "Lawson."

"Ew, no," Lottie says, mock gagging. "Hate it, change it."

Stealing the baby book from her hands, I turn to a random page under the boy's names and pick out the first name that I see. "Fine, Darby, then."

"You can't pick our son's name at random like that, Isaac," Lottie scolds me. She takes the book back and carefully looks at the meaning of Darby. "'Sometimes used in Ireland as an Anglicization of Dermot.'"

I smirk. "See, I was just being respectful of your heritage. Darby Fletcher. Sounds alright, huh?" When I receive a grunt in response, I set down my non-alcoholic beer and stand up from the sun lounger. Looming over her, I bend down and place a kiss on her lips. We haven't shared a kiss in a while, but that electricity I felt before is still there, making it harder to resist her. Honestly, there was something about this woman that drove me. I pulled away before anything more could happen between us but it was only slightly, just in case I felt the need to kiss her again. "What's your backup name for our daughter?"

"Orla," Lottie replies, her voice coming out in a whisper. I was about to comment that I liked the name but before I could open my mouth, Lottie was wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me in for another indulgent kiss. "Do you remember what I said to you the night we, uh... New Year's Eve?"

"At what point in the evening?" I challenged. "When you attacked me with your lips, the part where you slapped me, or was it when you were pulling me into a bedroom and simultaneously unbuttoning my shirt?"

Lottie blushes a deep crimson colour. "Probably the last part."

"You said, 'If you want me to stop, stop me, because if you don't, I won't,'" I recall her words to me. She lifted herself from the sun lounger, her arms never moving from around my neck, and stood on her tiptoes, her lips millimetres from mine. My eyes dart there in time to see her tongue dart out to wet her lips. "If I remember correctly, I said, 'You won't hear me resisting.'"

"Mhm," Lottie nods in agreement. Her lips graze mine, softly at first, becoming more and more determined as she continued until she was initiating another heart-stopping kiss. "If you want me to stop, stop me, because if you don't, I won't."

Her words throw me for a spin but it didn't matter. I knew what my answer would be. "You won't hear me resisting."

Ok, well...

1. Isaac knows the sex of the baby! 

2. Boy or girl?

3. Edith vs. Orla?

4. Lawson vs. Darby?

5. Charlotte was totally the one that pounced on Isaac on NYE.

7. Charlotte is totally the one that is pouncing on Isaac right now!

8. For those of you who are like, "Who the hell is Michael Taylor and where did he suddenly come from?" he was actually mentioned in Hello and is one of the guys in Isaac's friendship group. We'll be seeing more of him soon. Same applies to Elias and Jenna. 

9. I honestly don't see what the problem is, looking after Martha. That girl is an absolute delight!

10. I want that house!

See you Sunday, peeps!

Sarah, xx