As I stepped into the hallway I saw her again—leaving another office, a different therapist than Dr. Wilson, but obviously someone who did similar work with their patients. It made sense actually. There’s your homework. Seek forgiveness from those I believe I have harmed. My first step toward accountability in dealing with my problems would lead me to the same place as her. “Sarah, wait,” I called out.

LEAVING Dr. Burnsley’s office, I headed for the elevators. Still nothing from Ethan, and I could only imagine how bummed he would be that he’d missed my check-up. I would have to tease him—reminding him of all the geeky bonding time with Dr. B and the lame sex jokes he’d squandered.

I didn’t pay attention to the person who got in the elevator with me because I was busy checking my unanswered texts and messaging Len to let him know I was finished with the doctor. Not until he said my name. “Brynne.”

I knew who it was, though. I looked up slowly, starting from the floor. I saw his legs, both the prosthetic, and the real one, his muscled thighs, the cut body and wide shoulders, the very dark eyes, the handsome face that now looked so very different to me.

“Lance. W-what are you doing here?” My voice cracked.

“Don’t be upset, please, but I saw you go in to your appointment, so I waited for you to come out.”

“Are you—are you following me around London?”

“No.” His eyes flickered for an instant but then he shook his head. “I was with my own doctor—getting measured for a permanent prosthetic.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say to him. Lance had lost his leg, and despite our painful history, I still felt sympathy about what had happened. It was as if my brain just couldn’t turn the “empathetic” part off completely. It was still plugged in, grinding away, churning up emotions and memories from long ago. Lance Oakley just followed me into my elevator and told me how he’s been waiting for me to come out. My appointment had lasted an hour and a half with all the waiting in the lobby, and then more waiting in the examination room. Why would he hang around for an hour and a half? I gave a mental f**k it and asked, “So why did you wait for me, Lance?”

“I told you before, at the hospital, but you didn’t come back.” He looked down at the floor and then back up at me. “I know it’s way too much for me to ask, but, Brynne, I really need to talk to you. The question is, will you talk to me?”

“I heard what you whispered to me in your hospital bed, but I don’t know if I can.” And I truly didn’t know. Part of me was curious as to why he wanted to tell me he was sorry for what he’d done. Honestly, I was completely thrown for a loop by the whole thing. Lance coming to apologize was never on the menu of possibilities in my mind. Never ever. So when he appeared before me, as he was in the elevator, looking very sincere, I was really struggling with seeing him again. I instinctively put my hand over my belly.

The elevator door dinged and opened. I stepped out and he followed me into the lobby, his limped gait very pronounced from his injury, making me feel awkward and completely confused about what to do.

“I understand.” He nodded sadly. “I—I know you’re pregnant…and I don’t want to upset you or anything, but—” He stopped talking and lifted a hand in defeat.

“But what, Lance?” I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. He approached me, so I figured he should explain.

“You don’t owe me anything, Brynne. I don’t want to hurt you or disrupt your life, but it really bothers me that you don’t know the truth about me—about what happened that night.”

“Umm…well, I know what happened to me, Lance. I saw it on video.” I looked away, unable to face him when I said the last word.

“I know,” he said softly. “I am so sorry for hurting you, and I’d like the chance to explain myself.” He blew out a deep breath. “I do know a little about what you’ve been through. Your mother told me some of it when I tried to contact you, but your dad wouldn’t let me see you at all, and then you went away to New Mexico. I accepted that you probably couldn’t see me, so I stayed away from you on purpose. I was in Iraq, anyway,” he said bitterly. After a moment of silence he continued, “I—I heard about your dad’s passing. I remember how close you were to him. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

My goddamn tears will be the death of me. I swiped at my eyes and tried to pull it together so I could make it out of this building and not look like I’d been crying if Ethan showed up. Or Len.

In fact, Len was walking right toward me now, with the look on his face that meant my meeting with Lance was at an end.

Lance saw him too.

“I—I’m sorry, I have to go now. Lance, good luck,” I said lamely. I had nothing else to give him. I felt empty and confused. I wanted Ethan.

“All right.” He looked at me stoically, and nodded one time. Then he pressed a card into my hand. “Please think about it,” he whispered, before turning and walking away, his uneven step a tangible sign of just how much Lance Oakley had changed in the last seven years.

I told Len to drop me in Knightsbridge so I could do my shopping. There was no way I could go home at that point. I needed to clear my head and process my feelings. One thing was certain—I didn’t want to share with Ethan about my meeting with Lance. It would only upset him and make him territorial, and that wouldn’t do him, or me, any good. I should call Dr. Roswell though and get an earlier appointment. I needed impartial advice, and Ethan would be anything but impartial. I still didn’t know where he was or why he’d missed my check-up today, I thought glumly, feeling sorry for myself.

I went through the motions of selecting gifts for people, determinedly focusing on one simple task so I complete it. A silk robe for my mother in traitorous yellow seemed appropriate. It was really quite beautiful and she would probably love it. If I had them ship directly from the store, it might even make its way to her in time for Christmas. I didn’t know how I felt about my mom right now, especially after Lance’s confession that he’d spoken to her about me years ago. I wondered how that conversation had gone. Did she know something I didn’t know? The niggling of doubt scratched at me like a persistent itch. His card was in my purse. His number was there. I could call him and ask, and he would probably tell me.