The next morning, when nausea woke her before the alarm, she brushed it off as stress from having to work two twelve-hour shifts back to back. On the third day when nausea disturbed her sleep again, she wondered if she’d caught a bug and lay beside the sleeping Flynn with a hand on her forehead, trying to decide if she had a temperature or not. There was a thermometer in the kitchen drawer, she slipped from the bed, pulled on a robe and tiptoed down the stairs, stopping halfway as her mouth dropped open.

She carried on down but forgot about the search for the thermometer and sat looking out over the garden. The first thing she did every morning – she was religious about it – was to take her contraceptive pill. As soon as one packet finished, she opened the next. She never missed one. Ever… except… her eyes narrowed in thought as she went back to the first night Flynn had stayed over. A smile flickered and died. It had been a wonderful night and the sex had been amazing. She remembered reluctantly dragging herself from bed the following morning to prepare for that awful meeting in the nursing home. And she’d forgotten to take her pill.

It looked as if that one lapse had been enough.

She said nothing to Flynn who bounced down the stairs an hour later full of the joys of the morning. As usual, he brought an instant smile to her lips. ‘You’re up early,’ he said to her, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek.

‘I woke early, decided to get some coffee and watch the day dawning.’ She was frequently a poor sleeper so her comment caused no concern and Flynn busied himself making toast.

He spooned instant coffee into a mug, holding the jar and spoon up as he looked at her. ‘You want more coffee?’

‘No, thanks, I’ve already had a mug.’ The nausea had faded but she didn’t want to risk it returning and having to explain… or lie. If she was right, she wanted time to adjust to the thought before she told him. Once the words were out, there’d be no going back.

‘Any plans for the day,’ Flynn asked, taking the seat opposite. Toast crumbs fell from the slice he was eating in huge bites. Dinner was for dilly-dallying, he’d once told her when she’d commented that he finished each slice in four bites. Breakfast, on the other hand, he’d explained, was for getting fuel inside as quickly as possible.

Nausea rolled as she watched him. She gulped and looked away. ‘I need to do some shopping this morning, then I plan to have a lazy afternoon. The new crime thriller by Jenny O’Brien I ordered last week popped up on my Kindle this morning, so I fancy curling up on the sofa for a few hours and getting lost in that.’