Neither of them realized I’d seen her.

Damon hastily sidestepped, deliberately putting his broad shoulders between me and the closet door. “How did the appointment go?” he asked, forcing a grotesque, trembling smile.

I stared at him — belt still undone, hair disheveled, the bedsheet dragged halfway off the mattress. Then I looked at the ultrasound in my hand. Our daughter had turned toward the monitor that morning.

For the first time, I’d been able to see the delicate slope of her nose. Damon had claimed he was utterly swamped with a client emergency and couldn’t possibly attend.

Now I understood exactly what emergency had kept him home.

“Is she healthy?” he asked, his voice strained.