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I groan. “This guy again?”

“Humor me.”

I inspect my fingernails, bare of polish and short. “He plays recreational ice hockey with my brother. Jameson was always inviting me to come watch their games. I always had excuses because who wants to watch a bunch of grown men reliving their college years?”

Chastain makes a sound of amusement. “Go on.”

“Anyway, I was bored one Sunday night and went.”

“Do you have a weakness for hockey players?” he asks dryly.

I look up, confused and startled, then remember telling him about Kyle, the Canadian hockey player I’d had a brief affair with.

A wan smile cracks my lips. “I guess. Something about the aggression. And those big shoulder pads.”

Chastain’s eyes flare with laughter. “So you met Kevin after the game?”

“Yes. He asked me out. I said no.”

“You said no?”

I narrow my eyes. “Is there an echo in here?”

He smiles slightly, conceding with a nod. “So I’ll assume he got your number, probably from Jameson.” At my nod, he continues, “And after going on a date with him, you refused his calls for a few weeks before finally answering.”

I look away, ignoring the disquiet I feel at how well he has me pegged. Waving a hand nonchalantly, I motion for him to continue.

“You gave him another shot. He wooed you. Chased you. You enjoyed being the object of his obsession. Were you planning on hurting him?”

“Initially,” I admit quietly. “But he… we… everything about it was so normal, you know? I got used to it. Used to how he treated me.”

“Did you stop skydiving? Base jumping? Pushing your body to limits?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Did you talk about starting a family?”

I screw my eyes shut. “Yes.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“Excited.” The word comes out half-strangled.

Chastain is silent for so long, I open my eyes to see if he’s still there. He is—watching me with patient, surprisingly kind eyes.

“Had you stopped using birth control?”

The question rocks me back in my chair. Memories clamor for attention, creating a collage of confusion in my mind. Leaving a drugstore with a brown bag. Stopping by Kevin’s favorite espresso bar to grab his preferred drink and a couple of pastries.

Walking through the house with his drink, looking for him. Hearing the sounds no woman wants to hear. From our bedroom. In our bed. Running for the nearest bathroom. Vomiting up the bagel I’d had for breakfast.

Darkness falls through me, snaking tendrils that dim my vision.

“Oh, Jesus,” I whisper. “Oh, God, no. No.”

“I think it’s time, Amelia.”

His voice resonates oddly. My skin flutters, panic skating along my nerves.