The box sits in my pocket for the rest of the day.

I resist the urge to open it at work. The last thing I need is Paula looking over my shoulder and starting more tongues wagging.

It’s burning a hole in my pocket, though, and as soon I get home I fling everything else on the floor and pull out the box.

Holding my breath, I open it. And I’m utterly blown away.

It’s a necklace. But not just any necklace—it glitters like a clear night sky. There must be dozens upon dozens of diamonds on it.

“Holy. Shit.” I say aloud, my voice echoing in my mostly empty apartment.

I take it out of the box reverently and put it around my neck, standing in front of the mirror to admire it. It suits me . . . but hell, this thing would suit anybody. It’s freaking stunning.

And it probably cost more than I make a year. No, scratch that. It definitely cost more than I make in a year.

I’m torn.

Nobody has ever given me such an extravagant gift. Growing up, I was lucky if my parents even acknowledged my birthday at all, let alone got me a gift.

My first impulse is to put it back in the box, give it back to Luke when he arrives and tell him I can’t accept it.

But then I catch sight of myself in the mirror again and . . . well, I just can’t resist it. I’ll probably never get the chance to wear something like this again.

Just for tonight, so I don’t offend him. Then I’ll give it back to him in the morning and tell him to return it. Promise.

I’ll admit that I can’t stop throwing glances in the mirror at every possible opportunity as I get ready. It’s hard to believe I’m even allowed to touch the necklace, let alone own it. It’s like I’ve been whisked away to some kind of a weird parallel universe.

I get ready, putting on the last nice dress I own that Luke hasn’t seen yet. It’s just a simple black midi dress, but I love it. My paycheck needs to come through before he invites me anywhere else, or I’m going to have to start recycling.

As if on cue, the buzzer sounds. It’s him.

I open the door and his jaw drops as he sees the dress and the necklace. He lets out a low whistle as he looks me up and down, his eyes hungry. I can’t help but feel little flutters low down in my belly at that.

“God damn, you look good,” he growls. “Makes me want to call my parents up and tell them that sorry, we’re going to be a little late, if you know what I mean.”

He takes a step towards me, but I laugh and slip away from him.

“It takes a long time to look this good,” I tell him playfully, “and if you muss me up now we’ll never get there. Maybe later. If you’re good.”

“I’m going to be so damn good, you wait and see,” he says, eyes tracking my every movement.

“Come on. Let’s go, horndog,” I scold him. “Put your tongue away.”

He takes my arm and leads me down to his car, his steps heavy with reluctance.

Within minutes, we’re on our way, zooming down the city streets. He’s whistling to himself cheerfully, enjoying his evening off.

He looks relaxed and calm now, but I still remember the stress written on his face earlier in the day. This government regulation stuff is getting to him, I can see, and it’s good for him to have an evening off.

He catches me staring at him, then smiles as he darts a glance at me before turning his attention back to the road.

I want so desperately to tell him about the baby. It’s way past time—he should know, he deserves to know.

But will it kill the mood? Maybe it can wait until after the meal?

I can’t keep on waiting and waiting though, because it’s only a matter of time before I actually start to show. Soon enough, I won’t be able to hide it any longer.

This evening. After the meal. That’s when I’ll do it.

* * *

We meet Luke’s parents in a swanky Italian place in downtown Colorado.

Everyone knows this place—it’s one of the oldest and most exclusive restaurants in town. Peons like me can’t get a table here unless we book months and months in advance, but I guess that’s not a problem if your surname is Alder.

His Mom and Dad are just as smiley and friendly as the first time we met, and I’m happy to see them. They’re a cute couple—still obviously very much in love, and I can see where Luke gets his playful side from when I chat with his Mom. She’s quick to smile and quicker to crack a joke.

“Lovely to see you again Tessa,” she says, standing to kiss me on the cheek as we arrive. “I hope Luke hasn’t been acting up too much. I know how he can get.”

“I’m just about managing to keep him check.” I laugh. “It’s not always easy, though. He must’ve been quite a handful when he was a kid.”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t know the half of it. Why, one time . . .”

She launches into an extended anecdote about the time Luke ate dirt with a rock in it and had to have it surgically removed. Luke sits and listens with the long-suffering facial expression of someone who’s been subjected to this story many times over the years.

He coughs once she finishes, throwing me an apologetic look, then tries to change the subject.

“So, when do you two fly to London?” he asks.

“In the morning,” his dad says. “We’ll be gone for a few weeks. Brock has been keeping me up to date about this anti-competition crap. Have you got it taken care of?”

A slight wince on Luke’s face at the mention of work. “Yes Dad, I’ll deal with it. I’ve already got Brock busting my balls, so please let’s not go too much into it now. It’ll get resolved, don’t worry.”

His Dad doesn’t look completely convinced. I get the impression that he’s a guy finding it difficult to make the adjustment into retirement.

I try to follow along with the conversation as best I can, but I’m distracted by a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m chugging water by the glass to attempt to keep it at bay, but every time the waiters pass me by carrying plates of food, the smell makes bile rise in my throat.

“Want to order some wine, Tessa?” Luke’s mom is asking me, a kindly smile on her face.

“Oh, uh, no thanks Mrs. Alder, that’s very kind of you. I’m trying my best to steer clear of alcohol these days. My father was an alcoholic, and I hear it can run in families. It’s probably better if I just don’t touch the stuff.” I glance sideways at Luke. “I’ve also been known to make . . . questionable decisions while under the influence. I’ll stick with water.”

Luke grins cheekily. “I heard some rumors about the last time you were in Vegas—”

I cut him off with a hard kick under the table.

We toast, them with wine, and me with water, as Luke rubs his shin gingerly.

Everything is going fine, but it’s a plate of spaghetti that finally does it for me. It looks absolutely delicious, but the smell triggers my nausea something fierce. Bile surges in my throat, and I know I won’t be able to stop it this time.

“Excuse me for just a moment,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

I rush off to the restrooms, cursing this damn morning sickness. As I’m leaving, I can see concern written clearly on Luke and his parent’s faces.

God, I hope they don’t think I’m bulimic or something. How long is it until I’m out of the first trimester? Isn’t it supposed to stop by then?