I tossed my head back, hoping he couldn’t detect the jagged tremble in my voice. “The fact that you could even think I would be capable of breaking my promise and doing something like that to you and your family…”

I whirled round and proceeded to march away, tears glittering in the corners of my eyes.

“Where are you going?” Flynn yelled after me.

“Like you care. I’m calling a taxi and going home.”

I blundered away from Merry Wood and Lily’s cottage, gulping back hot tears. I just wanted to put as much distance between me and Flynn’s untrusting, wounded face as possible.

Chapter Thirty-One

I spent an awful Sunday evening seething with injustice and disappointment.

I switched my mobile off too, not expecting Flynn to call and apologise but not wanting to put myself though the agony of looking at my phone on the off chance that he might.

If I left my phone on, I knew I would be checking it every five minutes, mentally willing him to call and apologise; to say that he had reacted on the spur of the moment and that he didn’t believe for one minute I could betray him like that.

The twisting sensation of Flynn not believing me made me sink deeper into anger and fury. Well, if he could think so little of me, then it was a good job nothing had happened between us.

In the end, I occupied myself by putting up my Christmas decorations of rose-gold lights and erected my tree in the corner of the sitting room. Harley snuffled and played with the tinsel and baubles, while I fired on my CD player and desperately tried to channel Elton John’s joy of stepping into Christmas.

It didn’t work.

After we finished, Harley huddled up beside me on the sofa, pushing her curly, warm head into my leg and offering me gentle, loving licks that brought more frustrated tears to my eyes.

I woke up on Monday morning feeling hungover, even though I hadn’t had a drink, and robotically got ready for work. I didn’t want to go in and face anyone, even though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I dropped Harley round at my parents on the way to the office as fast as I could, citing I had an early meeting as the reason for me not hanging around to chat.

Mum commented that I looked pale and weary. She began quizzing me on what I was eating and whether I was eating enough. “I know a lot of you young working women,” she said, appraising me out of her critical eyes. “You’re so busy and on the go all the time. You don’t eat proper meals. What did you have for dinner last night?”

I mumbled something about lasagne and cited long hours in the office as the reason for me looking like a wax work.