She’d just started sorting through the mini pizzas, trying to decide how many she wanted versus how many she could reasonably eat and not be too stuffed to sleep, when a loud knock on the kitchen door made her jump.

She spun and saw the shape of a man standing outside. A second look told her the person in question was Micah. She crossed to the door and let him in.

“Hi,” he said, shivering in the cold, one hand clutching his coat closed, the other holding a guitar. “I saw the light go on and wondered if I could beg a few mini pizzas?”

“Of course,” she said automatically, stepping back to let him in, all the while trying not to notice how incredibly handsome he was. His dark hair gleamed in the overhead light, and his deep blue eyes were large and expressive. Or maybe it was his mouth—full and tempting, but still masculine.

“Dena?” he asked, his voice slightly concerned.

“Huh?”

Oh, crap! She’d been staring.

Humiliation rushed through her, making her turn away and struggle for control. What was wrong with her? Why was she acting like an idiot? All good questions she would try to answer later.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “I was lost in thought. Mini pizzas. There are bunches. Come pick the ones you want and I’ll heat them in the oven. I also have salad, and we have beer and wine.”

She was going to say more, or possibly ask about the guitar, when a wave of nausea hit her out of nowhere. It was swift and powerful and there was no resisting it. She barely had time to make it to the kitchen sink where she threw up the glass of water she’d had an hour ago.

As soon as she’d vomited, her stomach returned to normal. The cold, clammy sensation receded, and except for the lingering embarrassment and the fact that she was standing at the sink, she could almost pretend nothing had happened. Almost.

She carefully rinsed out her mouth, washed her hands, then sucked in a breath as she wondered what on earth she was supposed to say to her guest.

Whatever small hope she had that he’d left faded when she turned and saw him standing in the same spot. The coat was gone, and the guitar was lying across a chair. His expression was quizzical, the drawn-together brows making him even better-looking.

“You all right?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m great.”

“Stomach flu?”

“Pregnancy.”

“You’re pregnant?”

“Yes. Nine weeks.” She sagged against the counter. “I’d planned on keeping it a secret, but that’s not happening. About a week ago, the morning sickness hit, and it hit hard. Worse, it’s not just in the morning. It’s all day and without warning. Once it passes, I feel fine. Sometimes I can control it, but obviously not tonight. Sorry about that.”