Their Meant-To-Be Baby. Caroline Anderson

a lot to say.’

      ‘Like why you didn’t answer my text?’

      He saw her throat bob as she swallowed. ‘I didn’t get it—not until much later.’

      ‘That’s a lie. I saw it on your phone when I sent it so I know it arrived.’

      ‘But I didn’t see it on my phone. I didn’t have time to check until I got home—I was called in to work that morning.’

      ‘Sure you were.’

      ‘Why do you have to think the worst of me? I’m not lying, and it’s on record.’ She bit her lip, but her eyes looked troubled, and she gave a frustrated little sigh. ‘Look, Sam, I don’t want to do this here. Can we meet up later? Please?’

      He propped himself against the desk, hands rammed in the pockets of his scrubs so he didn’t reach out to her, and studied her, trying and failing to read her expression. ‘OK,’ he conceded finally, massively against his better judgement—although where Kate was concerned he didn’t seem to have any judgement. ‘What time do you finish?’

      ‘Three. You?’

      ‘Technically five, but maybe later. We could go to a pub, I suppose,’ he offered grudgingly, but she shook her head.

      ‘No, not a pub. Where are you staying?’

      ‘With James and Connie, but there’s no way you’re going there.’

      She frowned. ‘No, definitely not.’

      ‘Where, then?’

      She bit her lip again and he felt almost sorry for it. ‘My flat?’ she offered, sounding as reluctant as him. ‘You could come round when you finish. Six o’clock-ish?’

      He nodded, relieved that they were going somewhere private. ‘OK. Give me the address. Oh, and you’d better give me your phone number again in case I’m held up.’

      She nodded, and he couldn’t help noticing that she looked wary. Almost—hunted?

      ‘Kate, I get that it was a one-night stand,’ he muttered, relenting a little. ‘I’m cool with that, and I didn’t want any more. I don’t,’ he added, feeling a twinge of guilt at the lie. ‘But you could have answered my text.’

      ‘And said what? Thanks for a great night, sorry I missed the chance to say goodbye when you sneaked out of the hotel room?’

      ‘I hardly sneaked—’

      ‘You could have woken me up. You could have just asked me—’ She broke off and gave another impatient little sigh and pulled the phone out of her pocket. ‘Tell me your number.’

      She keyed it in, and his phone vibrated in his pocket. ‘OK, I’ve got it,’ he said, and put it into his contacts. ‘I’ll call you when I finish, give you a head’s up.’

      ‘I’ll text you my address. It’s the top-floor flat. Number three.’

      She hesitated a moment, then turned away, leaving him puzzled and a tiny bit intrigued.

      She probably wanted to set the ground rules for their relationship, he decided.

      Well, that was easy. Hands off. He could do that.

      He went back to work.

CHAPTER THREE

      SHE STOOD AT the bedroom window and watched a car pull up outside the house right on the dot of six, and she ran downstairs and opened the front door.

      ‘You found me OK, then?’ she said, stating the obvious, but he just gave her a quizzical smile.

      ‘It’s hardly rocket science. I’ve got a satnav.’

      Of course he had. Her stomach in knots, she turned away without another word and led him up the narrow, winding staircase that rose to the top floor of the big Victorian townhouse. Once upon a time it had been elegant. Now it had a run-down feel to it, as if it had been a long time since anyone had truly loved it, and she wondered what Sam with his privileged upbringing would think of it. Not that it mattered.

      She’d left the door at the top standing open, and he followed her in, past the cramped kitchen into the sitting room that seemed suddenly much smaller with him in it. It was shabby without the chic, but thanks to the last two hours of frantic activity it was at least clean and tidy, apart from the shelves in the alcoves, which were overflowing with books.

      ‘Drink?’ she asked, stalling for time, and he nodded.

      ‘Yeah, thanks—I could murder a coffee.’

      No chance. She waved at the sofa. ‘Make yourself at home. The kettle’s hot, I won’t be a moment.’

      She closed the kitchen door, sucked in a deep breath and tried to steady herself, to slow the heart that was lodged in her throat.

      ‘You can do this,’ she whispered, but she didn’t know how, didn’t know if she would ever be ready to say the words that would change their lives for ever.

      * * *

      He looked around, trying to get a handle on her character, but there was nothing to give her away.

      No ornaments or photos, the tired furniture showing evidence of a long, hard life, but at least it was clean.

      He studied the books, but all they proved was that she had eclectic taste.

      Biographies, travel guides, romance, crime, historical sagas, a collection of cookery books—and a small children’s book, dog-eared and tatty but presumably much loved.

      What did she want to talk about?

      He heard her come back in and turned, searching her face and finding no clues. She set the tray down and handed him a mug.

      He glanced at it, then sniffed it experimentally. ‘Is this tea?’

      ‘Sorry, I ran out of coffee. Anyway, you’ve been drinking it all day and tea’s better for you.’

      That made him blink. ‘Are you trying to mother me?’ he asked, mildly astonished because she hadn’t seemed like the sort of woman who’d hold back on anything if she wanted it, far less advise anyone else to, but he must have hit a sore spot because she sucked in her breath and looked away.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do that?’

      ‘Search me. Kate, what did you want to talk about?’

      She met his eyes, looked away briefly and seemed to brace herself before she spoke again.

      ‘OK. I do have coffee, but I can’t cope with the smell of it at the moment.’ Her eyes locked with his, defiant and yet fearful, and her next words took the wind right out of his sails.

      ‘I’m pregnant.’

      * * *

      There. She’d said it.

      And from the look on his face, it was the last thing Sam had been expecting to hear.

      He turned away, put the mug down on the mantelpiece and gripped the shelf so hard his knuckles turned white.

      ‘How?’

      His voice was harsh, brittle, as if he was holding himself together by sheer willpower. She could understand that. She’d been doing it ever since she’d found out, and she felt as if she hadn’t breathed properly for days.

      ‘We ran out of condoms, remember? That last time.’ The time she’d assured him it was safe. The irony of it wasn’t lost on her.

      She saw him frown in the mirror. ‘But you told me it was OK. You said you were on the Pill—or is that another lie?’

      ‘No! I am on it—or I was. But I went down with norovirus right after work