Free Breach of Faith by Andrea Hughes

best friend.”
    “Then talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
    My shoulders slumped. “All right,” I said in a low voice with another look at Tom. “I’m pregnant.”
    Martha took a sharp breath in, a questioning smile spreading across her face. “Oh, Kate, that’s wonderful. Isn’t it?”
    “Well, if you think that feeling sick, tired, bloated and emotionally unstable … not to mention irrational, is wonderful, then be my guest. Personally, I’d love a stiff drink but … oh damn … something else I can’t do right now.”
    “Does Will know?”
    I paused. Then paused again.
    “Kate? Have you told Will?”
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    Why?
    “Oh, great,” I muttered, “you’re back.”
    “What?” Martha’s eyes darted wildly around the room.
    I grinned, “nothing. There’s more to the story … if you’d like to hear it …?”
    I’d love to hear it.

Chapter thirteen
    1 November
    I strolled down the street, clenched fists giving away my agitation. Forcing myself to relax, I stretched out my fingers and smoothed my already wrinkle free skirt over my thighs. Telling Martha the whole story had taken a great weight off my mind; hopefully this apology would finally put an end to all the stress.
    Thinking back to our conversation I chuckled, remembering the stunned look on my friend’s face. The story was enough to shock anyone but, as the tale had progressed, the shock had been replaced by sympathy and, finally, dismay.
    “You have to tell him,” she had said, squeezing my hand hard enough to rub the bones together.
    I smoothed down my skirt for the umpteenth time, “but what the hell do I say?”
    “Great arse, love!”
    I looked around in surprise as a grinning young man strode past me, winking as he overtook.
    In the end my stubbornness had prevailed regarding my clothes. Black lacy undies beneath my blue dress. The light cotton swished pleasantly around my thighs; and Martha was wrong, it wasn’t too short. Going by the recent comment I had attracted from that stranger, it obviously moulded itself nicely to my buttocks too. Resisting the urge to smooth the skirt down over my bum, I halted.
    I was here.
    Peering intently through the door, I could discern just two figures standing inside. Both were customers and as I watched, another figure appeared on the other side of the counter, paper bag clutched in his hand. It was Dreadlock Man. Frank was nowhere to be seen. Stepping back from the door, I surreptitiously adjusted my bra, smoothed my skirt, fluffed up my hair and ignored a couple of wolf whistles from a building site on the other side of the road. This skirt must be a better choice than I’d imagined. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the bakery door.
    Dreadlock Man was filling a box with doughnuts, “be with you in a moment,” he called, without looking up. After a cheery, “see ya later,” to doughnut woman, he finally turned to me.
    “Ah …” he said knowingly, nodding thoughtfully, “it’s ‘Miz Chocolate Fudge’. Got a fresh one here with your name on it, love.” Despite myself, I couldn’t resist looking and peered curiously through the gleaming glass front of the cabinet.
    “Looks wonderful,” I agreed, bending over slightly to get a better look. Hearing a sharp gasp from behind, I whirled around to find a teenager sitting at one of the tables, a milkshake in one hand, a blueberry muffin in the other and an expression of shocked embarrassment on his face.
    I smiled, puzzled at his reaction to my words about the chocolate cake. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, maybe he didn’t realise that people over thirty also enjoyed the decadence of chocolate fudge cake.
    I turned back, Dreadlock Man was standing rigid behind the counter, looking like someone had replaced his head with a beetroot. As I watched, the mottled redness crept down the fair skin of his neck, disappearing inside the casually unbuttoned collar of