I’m confident placental shunting’s messing with my head. Even so, I don’t know if I should be upset with Ben, or angry at the woman. Whoever it is I end up directing my raging hormones on better beware. I can almost feel my estrogen levels reach an all-time catastrophic high. And besides, what else would be causing my most recent onset of nausea?

At least by the time we make it back around the lake, the shiny red convertible BMW is gone. And hopefully it took the brunette that had her claws on Ben with it. I still don’t know who she is. But the pearly white smile from all those pictures of her standing next to Ben mock me like a flock of crows pecking away at my eyeballs.

I wish I could unsee what I just saw. But I can’t. Nor can I keep having Rachel drive me in circles around the lake.

“You sure you don’t want to have a sleepover at my house?” Rachel asks, the tone in her voice soft and caring.

A sleepover back at my apartment sounds plausible. And the fifty-degree temp I set the thermostat at when I agreed to move in with Ben might even cool me off. Though I highly doubt it. I’m livid. And I’m not even sure why. There’s got to be an explanation for Ben’s behavior. I just need to ask.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I sigh, gearing myself up as Rachel pulls into the driveway. “I’ll shoot you a text later,” I tell her.

Ben must have been waiting. He’s at the car faster than I can coerce my belly to let me out. “Hello, ladies. How was the shower?”

He helps me out and immediately kisses the side of my head.

My surly mood all but slaps him. As it is, my hands quiver at my sides; there’s not a nerve ending anywhere in my being capable of firing off such a knee-jerk reaction in response to the turmoil I’m feeling.

Thankfully, Rachel chimes in, eagerly coming to my rescue. “It was a wonderful afternoon. You should know we played a bridal shower game where I’m supposed to keep track of the number of times Addison breaks a bow while unwrapping her gifts. She broke four ribbons. Five if you count the one that fell apart when she tried to help pack the car. If the old wives’ tale is true, you should probably give her some time to recover between the next four pregnancies. Space those baseball-loving babies you’re destined to give her out a bit,” she advises, shoving a box holding a wipe warmer to his chest, and then continues without missing a beat. “I’m not sure the ribbon thing applies at a baby shower. But since you two are doing this backwards, I suppose it applies here—”

Ben cuts her off, making easy work of removing some of the gifts from the back seat, and reminds Rachel that our current relationship status isn’t what he wants. The candid tone of his voice lifts a layer of anger from my shoulders, taking with it some of the weight of worrying about that woman with it. My heart skips a beat when I remember the night Ben looked into my eyes and proposed.

But the facts remain in the forefront of my mind. Ben’s been keeping things from me. The biggest secret apparently being another woman.

I hold it together for as long as I can, stunned further when I look around at all the holiday decorating he has done. Maybe that’s who she was. Some sort of home decorator or something. Yeah, or something. What kind of home decorator hugs a man like she loves him?

Sadly, my confusion and anger aren’t allowing me to enjoy what all Ben has done to the house. Right now I don’t particularly care about the beautiful Christmas tree that’s covering the majority of the back window. My heart needs to know who the woman is and just exactly what she means to Ben.

When the last gift is inside, and I see all the baby gifts strewn across the floor, I lose my composure and let a deluge of tears I’d been fighting stream down both my cheeks. So much for hoping things would work out with Ben, and just when I was starting to believe he truly is in love with me.

Ben looks at me like he hasn’t a clue why I’m so emotional, then pulls me into his arms, his warm hands caressing my back to calm me down. I don’t fight him. I selfishly soak up the feel of his touch, granting myself one last moment this close to him.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Exhausting day?” He palms my cheeks, his handsome face taking on an expression of deep concern. “These don’t seem like happy tears. Did someone say something mean? Tell me who it was and I’ll let ’em have it.”

He seems so sincere. I can’t control my reaction. The vision of his arms around the woman is eating me alive inside. “I need to know who she is,” I say feeling a twinge in my head, my voice hitching as I work to suck in a breath.

“Who?”

Oh. So now he’s going to play stupid. So typical of a man. I throw up my arms, then wipe my fingers across my face, determined more now than ever to find out who this woman is.

“The woman. You had your arms around. Fifteen minutes ago,” I huff each word. “Don’t even try pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. Surely you haven’t forgotten her already. Or the way she held on to you. It was like she was just counting the seconds until she could come back to you.”

Ben’s posture stiffens as he jerks his head back, his lids squeezing shut the same time he plunges both hands into his hair. He turns away and lets his sight roam past all the decorations in the great room, through the kitchen, and up to the ceiling before it lands back on me.

“It’s not what you think,” he says, his voice shaky.

“Oh! It’s not what I think? It’s never what we think. Is it, Ben?” I move away, suddenly noting the dress I’m wearing feels overly restrictive.

“Trust me! It really isn’t,” he insists.

“Then tell me, Ben. What were you. Doing with. Your hands all over. That woman?” I hiccup through additional throbs of pain and attempt to refill my lungs with air. God, what is happening to me? Why do I suddenly feel so ill?

“My hands weren’t all over some other woman.” He steps closer, an emotion-choked tone in his voice. “Please believe me when I tell you it’s not what you think.”

I want to reply, but the rolling in my stomach is relentless, nearly pushing the cake and ice cream I just ate up and out of my esophagus. Add my case of unrelenting nausea to everything else I’m feeling, and I’m not sure I’m thinking rationally.

Fixating on the image of Ben with the other woman seems a lot easier at the moment than believing him.

I feel like crap.

I can’t seem to stop crying.

I’m an emotional and physical mess.

When I don’t respond, Ben raises his voice. It’s as if he thinks my mental status is preventing me from hearing him, or the sweat that’s dripping down his reddened face has somehow muffled his tone. “Babe, you’ve had a long day. I’m sure you’re tired. How about you slip out of your beautiful dress and into something cozy and comfortable. And I’ll—”

Cutting him off, I let my emotions take over. “I know cozy. And comfortable. When I see it, Ben.” I try more breaths between words, but I’m too upset and can’t seem to catch my breath. “I didn’t hallucinate. Because I’m tired. But I am tired. And I think. I just want to go home.”

Needing to think, I turn to leave, hearing a strangled groan belt out of Ben’s throat. Not liking what I’m hearing, I twist to meet a pained expression covering his face. Feelings of deep sadness mix in with lightheadedness and almost in unison with a pounding that has now taken residence inside my skull.

I’m clearly confused.

Hormonally irrational.

And my head hurts like hell.

I cough through the pain. My vision seems blurry, perhaps even doubled. Blinking is doing nothing to bring Ben into focus.

Not thinking straight, I decide to break eye contact and feel my way out the door, choosing to leave my broken heart behind—with Ben.