Their Pregnancy Gift. Kate Hardy

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      But he couldn’t get involved with anyone. Not now. Not with that ticking time bomb hanging over him. It wouldn’t be fair.

      ‘I...’ He searched for an excuse, but the words just wouldn’t come.

      ‘OK. This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to eat carbs,’ she said softly, ‘in a quiet place where nobody can overhear us.’

      He couldn’t quite process what she meant, because his head was all over the place.

      As if she’d guessed, she said, ‘We’ll get a pizza delivered to my place. Which isn’t a come-on.’

      Pizza. Her place. He blinked. ‘Won’t your partner mind?’

      ‘I’ve been divorced officially since the summer. Which doesn’t mean that I’m desperate to replace my ex and get married again, if that’s a concern for you.’ She paused. ‘I should ask you the same. Will your partner mind?’

      ‘No partner.’ He’d broken off his engagement to Lara the day after he’d come back to England from America.

      ‘That’s settled, then.’ She gathered up the papers she’d spread in front of her and put them back into the cardboard wallet file. ‘Let’s go.’

      Enough of his brain cells still worked to make him ask, ‘Is it far? Should you be walking anywhere with that thing on your foot?’

      She smiled, as if pleased that he’d remembered about her foot. ‘It’s not that far and yes—that’s why it’s called a walking cast. Trust me, I’m not doing anything that will set back the date when I can get rid of this thing. I’m counting down the days.’

      He was aware he’d never actually asked her about it—which was pretty rude of him. Being polite to his colleagues didn’t mean getting close to them. ‘What did you do?’

      ‘Stress fracture. Second and third metatarsal.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Probably caused by my new running shoes. Which are so being replaced when I can run again. Unfortunately, that’ll be after physio and well after the charity run is held, but my best friend is the most wonderful woman in the world and she talked the event organisers into letting her run in my place. We’re raising money for the new baby-sized MRI scanner for the ward,’ she explained.

      ‘Put me down for sponsorship.’

      She smiled. ‘There’s no need. That wasn’t a hint. And I talk too much. Right. Pizza. What do you like?’

      He couldn’t think straight. ‘Anything.’

      ‘Is there anything you hate? Olives? Anchovies?’

      He grimaced. ‘Not anchovies, please.’

      ‘Let’s keep it simple, then. Margherita pizza and dough balls,’ she said. ‘And I have salad in the fridge. So we’re sorted.’

      Before Alex could even offer to pay, she’d already called the order through and was shepherding him out of the door of the café.

      As they walked back to her place, he was relieved that she didn’t push him to talk. She didn’t chatter on about nothing, either; she was surprisingly easy to be with. And oh, God, it was good not to feel quite so alone. That phone message last night had felt as if the axe hanging over him had taken a practice swipe a little too close to the top of his head.

      She unlocked the door to her flat and ushered him inside. ‘OK. I can offer you three types of tea, very strong coffee, a glass of water or a glass of wine.’

      When Alex couldn’t gather his thoughts enough to respond, she said, ‘I’ll be bossy and choose. Wine it is. Hope you don’t mind white.’

      ‘It’s fine, thank you.’

      This was what he’d admired about her on the ward. The way she saw what needed to be done and got on with it, sorting things out without a fuss. She was a bit on the bossy side, perhaps, but her smile took the sting out of that. She had a good heart. Enormous. Look at the way she was being so kind to him right now, when he’d been surly and was an utter mess.

      She took a bottle from the fridge and poured him a glass of wine. Then she set the table and put a salad together.

      When the pizza and dough balls arrived, he stared at her in dismay. ‘Sorry. I’ve been so rude.’ The least he could’ve done was offer to help lay the table. Instead, he’d just sat there and stared into his glass.

      ‘Don’t apologise and don’t worry about it. Eat your pizza and drink your wine,’ she said.

      So she wasn’t going to make him talk?

      Relief flooded through him. Part of him wanted to talk, to let all the poison out; but part of him still wanted to lock everything away, the way he had for the last few months.

      They ate their meal in silence, but it wasn’t awkward. Alex felt weirdly comfortable with her; and at the same time that feeling of comfortableness unsettled him. He knew Dani on a professional level, but they weren’t friends. Shouldn’t this feel strained or, at the very least, slightly awkward? But right now he felt as if he’d known Danielle Owens for ever.

      What was a little more worrying was the way every nerve end tingled with awareness when his hand accidentally brushed against hers as they reached for the dough balls at the same time. In another world, another life, this meal would’ve been so different. The start of something, full of anticipation and possibilities.

      But he was a mess and she was being far kinder to him than he deserved, after being so standoffish and difficult at work.

      She topped up his glass without comment, and he had just about enough presence of mind to grab a tea towel when she washed up their plates.

      And then she shepherded him through to the living room.

      ‘All righty,’ she said. ‘You look as if you were in pretty much the same place as I was, last Christmas. I was lucky because my best friend dragged me out and made me talk. So I’m paying it forward and being the person who makes you talk. Spill.’

      Talk. How on earth could he put the mess of his life into words? Alex looked at her. ‘I don’t even know where to start.’

      She shrugged. ‘Anywhere. Just talk. I’m not going to judge and I’m not going to tell anyone else what you tell me.’

      This was his cue to refuse politely and leave. But, to his horror, instead the words started spilling out and they just wouldn’t stop.

      ‘It started eight months ago. My mum asked me to meet her for lunch. And then she told me my dad wasn’t my dad. I’d grown up believing I was one person, and then suddenly I wasn’t who I thought I was.’

      She said nothing, but reached over to squeeze his hand briefly. Not with pity, he thought, but with fellow feeling—and that gave him the confidence to open up to her.

      ‘Apparently she and dad were going through a rocky patch. He had a two-month secondment up in Edinburgh and my mum had an affair with an actor who came into the coffee shop where she worked while my dad—well, the man I grew up thinking was my dad—was away. I’m the result.’

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