she’d forgotten, how ravenous she was all the time. She dragged herself off the couch and out to the kitchen to heat a bowl of minestrone soup in the microwave.
A week had passed since that night at the pub. Every day since she’d half expected to get a phone call from Darcy wanting to talk about the baby, but nothing. What kind of a man, even one who didn’t want to be a father, walked away from that kind of news with no discussion? Oh, the next day he’d sent her an email asking for bank details so he could deposit money for the baby. She’d deleted it without replying. Thought he could throw money at the problem and it would go away. Huh!
She ate her soup then put her dishes in the dishwasher and went to have a shower. The hot water streaming over her head and shoulders gradually eased some of the tension out of her knotted muscles. She needed to let the incident go. She’d told Darcy she didn’t want anything from him and she meant it. She just wished, for her baby’s sake, that he cared even a little.
She turned off the tap and stepped into the steamy bathroom. Even though it was only 7:00 p.m. and still light out she didn’t bother dressing again but put on a camisole and panties, ready for bed. Rubbing a clear patch on the foggy mirror she turned sideways, smoothing a hand over her flat stomach. No sign of a baby bump yet. Her breasts had started to swell, though, curving above the lacy camisole.
A knock at the door startled her. Who could that be? She wasn’t expecting anyone and didn’t know a soul in the building. Anyone from outside would ring the bell to be buzzed up. Pulling on a dressing gown, she went down the hall and put an eye to the peephole.
Darcy stood there, holding a fistful of purple irises and orange gerberas. Despite herself, she melted a little. Just when she was totally, completely angry and had decided she hated him, he brought her flowers.
Emma opened the door. One bare foot crept over to rest on top of the other. “What brings you here?”
He presented her with the bouquet. “Sorry I acted like a dickhead.”
Wearing his button-down shirt and with his tousled dark hair, he looked younger than his forty years and sexier than he had any right to. How could she possibly feel attracted when she was so angry at him?
Hell, why was she even angry? She wasn’t supposed to feel anything anymore. “Thanks,” she said, accepting the flowers. Their fingers brushed. Nope, she felt nothing. That was static from the carpet, not a spark of electricity.
Darcy’s gaze dipped to the neck of her robe where the top of her camisole showed. “Looks like I caught you at a bad time.”
“I go to bed early. I have to get up at five.” Now she was explaining in case he thought she was expecting someone. Which she had every right to do, if she wanted. Except that she wasn’t, and had no plans to go out with a man in the foreseeable future. Maybe someday, after the child was a few years old she would be ready to date again, but not with Darcy’s baby growing inside her.
“Apology accepted. Thanks for the flowers. Now if that’s all you came for...”
She wasn’t going to automatically invite him in. The apartment, even small and poorly furnished, was her sanctuary, one she’d painstakingly constructed after their divorce. Nothing from their life together existed in this apartment and that’s the way she wanted it. She had to cut out all traces of the past or she would end up reliving it every single day.
“It’s not.” He jammed his hands in his back pockets. “Can I come in so we can talk instead of me standing out here like a delivery man? Or we could go out for coffee. Five minutes, that’s all I ask.” The lines bracketing his mouth deepened.
Reluctantly, she relented. It had cost him something, coming here. A baby wasn’t his choice, but he was trying to make amends with her. Stepping back, she gestured to the arched opening on her right. “Take a seat. I’ll put some clothes on.”
She slipped into her bedroom, tugged on a pair of leggings and threw on the green silk top hanging on the back of the door. Too late she realized he’d given her the blouse for Christmas the year