I glance at our joined hands and up at his face. The sun is bright behind him and his face is mostly in shadow.

“Yes,” I croak.

My legs are shaky and I’m not sure if it’s fright from the near miss with the man on the bike or the way Scott is looking at me.

He clears his throat and lets my hand go. “Actually, I should probably head home and do some work.”

“Sure.”

“Will you be around tomorrow? I knitted a blanket for the baby and thought I could swing round in the morning to drop it off.”

Oh my God, who is this guy?

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“I know. I saw the pattern and it was just too cute, so I had to give it a go. It’s got a hood with little bunny ears on one corner, which sounds cringe but it’s… Actually, the whole fact that I knit is cringe anyway”

“Stop being so hard on yourself. You should own it – the whole knitting thing.”

“You don’t think it makes me too… I don’t know… weird?”

I laugh. “No, I don’t. Well, only a bit.”

Scott grimaces. “Thanks.”

I push his arm. “I was joking.”

We smile at each other and I should look away, but I don’t.

“Well…” Scott looks at his feet. “I should go. Does ten o’clock sound OK?”

Another Braxton Hicks is ramping up and I need him to go before it gets more intense.

“Sure, see you then.”

My hands rest on my hard-as-rock belly as he runs away.

*

“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe, stroking the cream blanket. “And the bunny ears are adorable.”

Scott looks anxious. “I nearly chickened out of giving it to you.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s like I’m putting myself out there somehow. Making myself vulnerable.”

I’m reminded of the first time we met on the plane when Scott talked about auras. He’s the most open person when it comes to talking about emotions that I’ve ever met. Which makes me more than a little scared, though not necessarily in a bad way.

“My dad died a couple of weeks ago,” I say, surprising myself.

“I’m sorry, Trish. That’s very sad.”

I continue to stroke the blanket. “We weren’t close. I hadn’t seen him in years.”

“But he was still your dad.”

“I guess.” I’m regretting my outburst. I’m not ready to talk about my parents with anyone. “Would you like a tea or coffee?” I ask, folding the blanket carefully.

“Sure, if you’re making one for yourself.”

I place the blanket on the chest of drawers and he follows me into the kitchen.

“So, do you have any plans for the afternoon?” asks Scott.

I flick on the kettle. “Sort of.”

Scott pulls out a chair and sits at the table. “What does that mean?”