Molly Hunter stared for a good thirty seconds at the long white stick displaying its message like a beacon atop her peach tile bathroom counter. Put it down, picked it up, stared at the double pink message some more. It couldn’t be. Had to be…impossible. Nausea sent her stomach on a renewed roll and pitch, as if daring her to disagree. For the past couple of weeks she’d been waking up nauseous, tired, but with three of her summer school students out sick over the last month with the flu, she’d attributed her touchy stomach to them. Not to— Oh, God. To that night in Vegas. Two months ago. Had it been that long? How could she not have noticed? Easy. She didn’t have a boyfriend, or a husband, and the chances of her getting pregnant were slim to none. Except this time Slim had apparently been an overachiever. Her mind rocketed back to the bar, to a gorgeous man with blue eyes and dark hair. A man she knew only by his first name. Linc. “No last names.” “No commitments.” “Nothing but tonight.”
