I rounded on Brooke. “What’s Mitch doing here?”

“Ian invited him. They met up at the hardware store yesterday and got to reminiscing about school, and Ian ended up asking him to come. Sorry. You sounded like it was fine seeing him.” She eyed me with a worried frown wedged between her brows.

“I don’t mind,” I said, my tone unintentionally clipped. But I did mind. I couldn’t avoid him forever, but I’d hoped to over the holidays. I wasn’t anywhere near ready to see him.

While I goggled at Mitch from the dining room, contemplating an escape route, our gazes connected. He assessed me coolly, as though he wasn’t surprised to find me there. Of course. Ian had probably told him I was coming to the party.

Mitch made a beeline toward me, just as Brooke wandered away from the table to talk to her husband.

I froze, stiffening my back.

Mitch leaned close to me. “Can we talk?”

“I’d rather not.” Avoiding his gaze, I felt my face heat.

A suppressed sigh hissed through his lips. “If you changed your mind about me, I can accept that. I just need to understand what happened—”

“Not now. Not here.” I met his gaze then, noting the glimmer of bewilderment blended with hurt in his eyes.

“Then when? Where?”

Tearing my gaze away, I tacked a smile onto my lips as Ian approached with a beer for Mitch and a glass of white wine for me.

“No thank you,” I said.

“You sure?”

I nodded.

“Rum and cola, then?” he offered.

“Just the cola, please. Even one drink can get me into trouble.” I chuckled, pretending it was a joke, and darted a glance at Mitch. “I’ll come with you,” I told Ian.

The tension in my spine eased somewhat as I turned my back on Mitch and strolled into the kitchen. Part of me yearned to unleash my anger on him, but at the same time, I didn’t quite trust myself not to crumble to pieces in front of him.

In the kitchen, the aroma of cooking food hit me, making my stomach roll. “What are you making?” I asked Ian while he poured cola into a glass on the counter.

“Appetizers. Spanakopita and sausage rolls.” He handed me the glass before opening the oven to take a peek inside. The pungent aroma of sausage, cheese and pastry wafted out. “Just about ready. You won’t be able to resist these. Brooke made the filo pastry. It’s so buttery it melts in your mouth.”

I gulped a mouthful of cola, but it didn’t help my churning stomach. In a moment I felt the carbonated drink rising back up my throat. Wrapping my hand firmly over my mouth, I ditched the glass on the counter and dashed toward the bathroom down the hall.

My shoulder bouncing off the wall as I rounded the corner, I fought to keep my supper down, and gave a silent prayer of thanks when I came to the open door of the unoccupied bathroom. I scurried inside and slammed the door behind me, turning the lock before I jerked up the toilet seat and dropped to my knees.

Seconds later my stomach lurched and expelled its contents. I was getting used to this happening without much warning, at least once a day, but this was the first time since I’d arrived in Eastport.

When the heaving stopped, I sat back with my eyes screwed shut and braced my hands on the cold floor tiles, taking long, measured breaths. My head spun and my throat ached, but the nausea had subsided.

A knock on the door startled my eyes open. “I’ll be out soon,” I whimpered.

“Are you all right? Do you need help?”

Mitch. “You’ve done enough,” I said under my breath as I climbed to my knees. “Go away.”

“Not until I know you’re all right.”

“I’m fine,” I said, my voice gaining strength.

“Not good enough. I’m not going anywhere until you open the door.”

Bastard. As though he had any right to make demands.

I dragged myself to my feet, turned on the faucet and hung my head over the sink to rinse my mouth. After swishing and spitting a few times, I straightened and checked my image in the mirror.

My skin looked sallow, my hair was disheveled and my mascara had smudged at the edges of my eyes. But never mind. I felt better now. I wet my fingers and swiftly rubbed away the black smears.

“Carly?”

“Just a second!” Scowling in the mirror, I fluffed my hair with my fingertips before opening the door.

Mitch stared at me from the hallway. I could tell he was trying to match my stoic demeanor but concern simmered in his dark eyes.

Lifting my chin, I squared my shoulders. Weary in body and spirit, all I really wanted to do was melt against him.

“I’m fine,” I said through tight lips. “Just coming down with something, I guess.” I stepped into the hallway, pressing my back against the wall.

“Is that why you refused the wine?” Mitch quirked a skeptical eyebrow and folded his arms. “Not feeling well?”

I had to keep my gaze fastened on his chin to maintain my firm tone. “Exactly.”

“You’re not even looking at me. Carly, after everything my ex and I went through trying to have a baby, I recognize certain signs. At the risk of making a horrible misjudgment, I have to ask—are you pregnant?”