We’ve spent nearly two hours down at the waterfront eating ice cream and watching boats go by, the sea breeze wonderfully cool and reviving.

I laugh and rummage for my keys. “Don’t even get me started on family Christmases.”

“Actually, that was a subtle cue for you to open up about your family.”

I narrow my eyes. “Easy, Scott.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “OK, I’m sorry.”

Opening my door, I turn to Scott to say goodbye. Our conversation has been relaxed and easy. So much so, I’m reluctant to leave. I get the impression Scott’s in no hurry, either. If I wasn’t so dog-tired, I’d stay. There’s also the fact I really, really need a shower.

“Thank you for the ice cream – I mean, gelato.”

“You’ve very welcome. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of today. It was special.”

His voice is stilted and his cheeks are flushed. Now, I suddenly feel awkward.

“I hardly allowed you to do anything. You just showed up.”

“You know what I mean.”

I think we’re both stalling, not wanting to say goodbye.

“Look, Trish, I haven’t wanted to bring it up because I figured you didn’t want to talk about it, but…” He pauses. “Are you feeling any better about the DNA results? About the father, I mean.”

Damn him. Why did he have to go and drag that up? I’ve spent all afternoon without giving the situation a second thought.

“I’m still working through it,” I say gruffly, hoping he’ll take the hint.

“Sure. Sorry.”

“Well…” I shuffle my feet. “Bye, Scott.”

“Bye, Trish.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Take care,” he murmurs.

For a few seconds I freeze, unable to move until Scott shifts away. Taking a shaky breath, I clamber into my car and take off without looking back.

31

Over the next few days, I stick to my routine: early morning jog, shower, work, home, movie or book, bed. I field a number of regular calls and messages of support from my friends and one polite text from Scott asking how I’m doing. I send him a breezy “I’m great,” with a thumbs-up emoji.

Elliot avoids my desk completely, leaving me both relieved and pissed off. It’s not until Thursday afternoon that I spy him coming out of Tash’s office, his face red.

“Elliot,” I call, rushing out from behind my desk. “Can I talk to you a sec?”

I feel like all eyes in the office turn towards us.

Elliot frowns. “I just got a complete roasting from Tash over something I had no control over, so this probably isn’t the best time,” he growls.

Where has the gentle guy I used to think was far too nice and agreeable gone?

“OK, well, can I catch up with you after work? Please,” I add.