‘This is amazing,’ she says. ‘We can see everything . . .’

‘But no one can see us,’ I reply. The air between us has its own pulse, and it’s racing.

Last time, before I kissed her, I wanted to prolong the moment before, in case it didn’t live up to expectations.

This time I don’t want to waste a second, because I know it will.

Chapter 26: Gemma

Dan’s lips part. He’s either about to say something or he’s about to—

Kiss me.

Yes. Kiss me.

Except kissing is the gateway drug to the other things that I want, but can’t allow to happen.

I shouldn’t have come up here with him. I should have kept my distance for ten days. Ten days is nothing.

No. Ten days is for ever. It’s only three nights since I remembered what it’s like to give in to desire, and I’m seconds away from doing that again.

Must focus on something else. Something logical and sensation-free, like . . . numbers. Cost of my embryo transfer: three thousand, nine hundred and eighty-two pounds. Hours since the transfer: thirty-six. No, thirty-seven.

The first time I had an embryo transferred I printed out a timeline that told me, hour by hour, what might be happening. I checked as compulsively as I checked my own body for signs. There were none.

After the second transfer I tried to pretend nothing was happening. And I was right, of course. But the timeline from transfer one has lodged in my brain, so I know without thinking that, right now, the embryo should be hatching.

Hatching.

Could the joy I’ve been experiencing tonight be the blastocyst doing its thing? That tiny bundle of cells can trigger thousands of changes inside my body, readying it for a journey that seems both everyday and impossible. Who’s to say that euphoria isn’t one of those changes?

‘Gemma . . .’

Has anyone spoken my name like that before? The lips that made that sound are almost on mine.

Yes.

Soft and sweet and summery.

No thoughts.

Only sensations.

His fingers in my hair. My hands against his back. Our bodies arching, closer, closer, closer.

But also: startling spikes of achy tenderness in my belly. Each one a dotted bruise caused by the jabs I’ve been giving myself. Count them: one, two, three . . .

I rear back so fast my neck hurts, like whiplash.

‘I can’t do this,’ I say, even though my body is saying the opposite. ‘Not now. Not tonight.’

His eyes bore into me: shock or anger or loss—

‘It’s OK,’ he says, stepping back.

‘We shouldn’t have . . . I shouldn’t have let that happen. Not because I don’t want it to. You must know that, but I need more time.’

Before I can mess up further, I climb down the ladder, though my hands and feet still tingle so much I can barely feel the rungs. On the terrace, Bear stirs and I lift him into my arms, his body warm and loose. We brush against the potted night jasmine and that releases a scent so sweet it makes me dizzier still.