Hannah
Noah’s breath fanned across my skin, raising trails of goosebumps in its wake.
“I’m… I’m not pregnant, Noah,” I said slowly, willing my voice to remain steady beneath his glare. His eyes bored into mine, that piercing green gaze somehow making me feel utterly exposed despite the dim lighting of the restaurant.
“Don’t lie to me,” he growled again, his fingers flexing against my abdomen. “You haven’t had a drop of alcohol in weeks now. And you’ve been throwing up, I know you have… And your cravings…”
His voice trailed off, and I felt a flush of heat creep up the back of my neck. It was true—all of those things were true. I was pregnant. But I couldn’t tell him; not now, not when we only had two months left before our divorce.
Noah seemed to sense my hesitation, his
