I am being blinded by bright sunlight coming in through the window when I wake up. In my turbulent state of mind last night I had neglected to shut the blinds, and now we are experiencing a truly sunny day. The early morning sun is bouncing off of the far wall, and reflecting its golden glow onto everything that it touches. It reminds me of how everything seems to change when Andrea smiles at me, and the way she illuminates the room with her warmth.

I remember with a burst of joy that she came back last night, and my resulting conversation with Gayle. I have to go and see if she is awake! Surprisingly quickly, I am out of bed and pulling on my robe. Quietly, I pad barefoot along the hallway to check on her, not wishing to wake her if she is still sleeping. The noises I can hear coming from her room are my undoing. Without stopping to knock, I open the door and walk across the room to the other side, where I can see her through the open en-suite door.

She is on her knees, bending over the toilet. She looks pitiful as she hears me enter and turns to look at me with baleful eyes.

I pick up the hair elastic she has left on the vanity and pull her hair back into a loose ponytail. Opening the cupboard that resides along the wall, I see a stack of new washcloths, so I take one and wet it, wiping her face gently. All the while she just stares at me in silence, her lower lip trembling slightly.

I rinse the cloth, wring out the excess moisture, and hold it against the back of her neck.

"How much trouble am I in?" she asks me, her sad eyes finally meeting mine.

I sigh, because really, who am I to judge her for drowning her sorrows this way?

"You're not the first person to overindulge, Andrea. I am hardly in a position to tell you not to drink so much."

She pulls her legs around and leans back against the wall closing her eyes, and I can see a tear building in the corner of her eye. I act instinctively, sinking down onto the tiled floor next to her, never more grateful that she has underfloor heating in every room. Putting my arm around her shoulders, I pull her close against my side, holding her as she cries quietly.

Eventually, her tears stop and she sits up abruptly. Rubbing her eyes fiercely, she pulls away from me as she does so.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cry on you," she mumbles, as she stands up and leaves the bathroom before I can get another word out.

I realise then, that she has accepted my comfort in a moment of need but nothing has been resolved between us. It becomes clear that Andrea is still angry with me, and I cannot blame her for this.

It takes me longer to get up off of the floor than Andrea, who sprung up like a machine, but I follow her out of the bathroom. I find her trying to stay balanced on one leg, while pulling on her sweatpants, but she ignores me, engrossed with her efforts. A small part of me wants to laugh, as she struggles to remain on her feet. Instead, I head to the door, informing her before I leave that I will make our coffee and breakfast.

I peruse the cupboards, and then the fridge and freezer. I know she has a preference for carbs, especially when there has been alcohol involved. In the freezer I find the perfect breakfast, as I spot a packet of pre-rolled croissants. I take them out of the packet and place them onto a tray, waiting for the oven to finish heating.

I make us both coffee and sit as patiently as I can to wait for her, but my leg is bouncing up and down without permission. I hope she won't be too long because I am desperate to talk to her. I want nothing more than to take the plunge and tell her how I feel, with the hope that we can finally move past this thing between us.

It has always been there, I realise, and it has been too long getting to this point. Finally, I am not her boss, and she is not my assistant, and it is up to us if we want to be together. I am terrified though because will she still want me? Or have I ended all possibilities between us before we have even begun?

She enters the kitchen then, and there is evidence of fresh tears in the glassiness of her eyes. I know we need to talk, but I can't stop myself from standing and approaching her. I do so slowly because I don't want to scare her off, but her eyes dart to mine and it gives me the courage to take the final step.

"May I hold you, Andrea?"

She doesn't answer, but she does nod slightly, and I take the final step before wrapping my arms around her waist and pressing myself up against her. My lips find her cheek and I kiss her firmly, her arms finally finding their way around me too. She smells of spearmint toothpaste, and clinique face wash; fresh and clean.

"I think we need to talk, don't you?" I murmur, feeling her stiffen in my arms.

"Maybe," she hedges carefully, "I'm not sure what about?"

I pull back and raise my hand, stroking my thumb across her delicate cheekbone. "Really, Andrea? You can't think of anything that we need to talk about?" I tease slightly.

She looks at me guiltily then, "I've been wrong before. I don't want to say anything and be wrong again."

I have to be brave because she has doubted my feelings for too long. Thanks to Gayle, I am confident in her feelings for me, so it is for me to take the first step now.

I take a deep breath and change my position so that both of my arms are up and around her neck. She is staring at me, wide eyed and ironically, her doe-like eyes are looking at me like she is a deer caught in the headlights. Her arms tighten around me though, so I take that as a good sign, and it gives me the courage to continue.

"I would very much like to kiss you, darling," I tell her frankly, giving her the chance to put a stop to this if she doesn't want it. If she's not ready.

Her eyes brighten just slightly and I take that as my cue, pressing myself even closer, and touching my lips to hers in the chastest of kisses.

Her eyes blink comically as I pull back, but then she smiles at me and I am almost blinded. Spurred on by her reaction I reclaim her lips and this time the spark of passion ignites between us. Her lips part and our tongues meet; the taste of her nearly has me dropping to my knees. She spins us around, and pushes me against the counter, taking control of the kiss, and I am surprised to find I enjoy her confidence. Her hands run up my sides, and when I feel her fingertips brush against the side of my breasts a flood of moisture leaves my body.

I hear myself whimper, and the sound is unlike any other I have heard myself make before. This kiss is everything to me. It is so much more than I could ever have imagined and better than any fantasy I've had of her.

Reluctantly I pull away, because I know we still need to talk. I can't help but smirk when I see her flushed, panting, and lips parted; staring at me like I am the last drop of water in a desert.

"Breakfast? You must be hungry?" I ask as nonchalantly as I can.

She mumbles beneath her breath, and when I ask her what she said, she repeats it a little louder.

"Not for food," she tells me with a glint in her eye.

"No?" I ask her teasingly, "then what are you hungry for?" I flutter my eyelashes innocently at her, trying to withhold the laugh that is attempting to escape me.

She blushes, and I know where her mind has gone, but she doesn't feel confident enough to answer with what we both know she is thinking.

It's like a bucket of cold water douses me when I realise she doesn't trust me enough to be open with me about her desires. She is still scared that this is one-sided, so I know I have to sit her down and make sure she understands exactly how I feel.

I put the tray of croissants in the oven and check the time. They don't take long and certainly not enough time for us to have a serious conversation about our relationship or our future.

Turning back to her, I ask, "what do you want to do today?"

"Sleep, eat and sleep some more," she woefully replies, and I can see she still feels hungover. Hopefully, food will help.

"That can be arranged," I reply, as images come unbidden of us sharing a bed for an innocent nap, morphing into a frenzied session of us showing our love for each other.

I walk around behind her and rest my hands on her shoulders, massaging the tight muscles underneath gently, as she sighs, "that feels so good."

I continue working her muscles quietly until the croissants are ready. I dip down and place a soft kiss on the back of her neck, watching with a smile as she responds with a shiver that goes all the way through her body. I can see the goosebumps rising on her pale, flawless skin.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. It is not uncomfortable but we are both in our heads, deep in thought. I pick up the dishes and put them into the dishwasher, wiping down the countertops, until order has been restored to the kitchen. She tells me that she needs to clear her head, so she is going to go and chop some wood. I don't want to put off our conversation but I know it is unwise to pressure her into talking before she is ready to, so I let her go without interference.

I watch her leave out the door to walk round to the shed, and I wander around aimlessly not quite sure what to do with myself. I want to go and join her, but I am unsure that my presence is welcome at the moment.

Resigning myself to the fact that she won't be in anytime soon, I run myself a bath, to try and relax what have become muscles knotted with tension. I fall asleep, and wake up in vastly cooler water, with pruned fingers and toes. I get out and dry off, choosing a flared skirt and thigh highs, paired with one of my favourite blouses. I am out of my comfort zone with Andrea, and I need the confidence my armour gives me.

I apply heavier make-up than I have been wearing the last few days, and I am pleased with my appearance when I finally leave the room. Hopefully, Andrea will be pleased with it too.

Andrea is in the kitchen drinking coffee and she wordlessly gets up to pour me a mug. We both sit at the table in silence, and I have so many words I want to say but I can't force a single one of them to leave my mouth. That is until I see her face, where she has a splodge of red on her cheek.

"Did you get personally acquainted with the paints again?" I enquire, pointing to her cheek.

"Um, I was doing a bit of tidying up so I had more room for logs," she tells me and again, I have the distinct impression she is hiding something. I have known her for a long time now, and I know her expressions. She is being evasive even if she isn't outright lying, and I want to know why. I am too scared to ask though because there are more important conversations we should be having.

"We should go back to the store today," she cuts off my thoughts, "we only picked up the basics the other day, and I have a couple of things I want to pick up."

I'm surprised by her request, but I see the value in us making another trip. I hope that she is not just delaying our conversation though, because we need to resolve this situation between us one way or the other. Neither of us can continue like this.

On the way to the store, I take a chance while she is driving and rest my hand lightly on her thigh. She doesn't push me off, and instead, I can see a small smile tugging up at the corners of her lips as she drives. She is the safest driver I know and will only ever take her eyes off of the road, or her hands off of the wheel for the briefest of moments, so I am gratified when she reaches down and gives my hand a quick squeeze. It's not verbal, but the communication is clear and I know that she likes having my hand there.

Andrea surprises me again, by making sure that we pick up lots of different fruits and vegetables. I know she has a penchant for high carbs and fatty foods and I had assumed, wrongly, that these must be the staples of her diet. I have also heard people tease her often enough in the office, to know that she keeps chocolate bars in her desk drawer, so I am surprised when she doesn't move to pick any up.

We reach the liquor aisle and she resolutely picks up a small bottle of pink gin, grinning sheepishly.

"If you want to talk, then I'm going to need this for that conversation," she tells me, and I want to ask her what she is so afraid of. However, I know full well that I will sit down to talk to her with a glass of whisky in my hand, so I can't comment on her choices.

We have the lasagne from last night to heat up, but she picks up ingredients for a side salad, knowing without me asking that this would be my preference. It is amazing to me that she doesn't need to check with me when she chooses the salad leaves. She picks up my preferred romaine lettuce, and chooses cherry tomatoes over the larger salad ones, and even grabs a bottle of the salad dressing I keep hidden at the back of the fridge. I can't help but wonder if she knows it is there, because how else would she know what I secretly enjoy so much? At restaurants I always choose not to have my salad dressed, so she has not witnessed me consuming this before. Finally, we head to the checkout to pay.

I am about to hand her my card, but she glares at me, and I am mindful of her words about finances from yesterday, so I say nothing, except "thank you," when she finishes up at the till.

Driving back to the house I can feel the tension coming off of her in waves, and I wonder why she is suddenly so agitated. Is it because of our upcoming talk? Is she preparing herself to let me down gently? Or is she more scared of what it is that I have to say?

We each remove the shopping bags from the trunk and enter the house. We make quick work of unpacking them in the kitchen and putting it all away. When we are done, we are standing on opposite sides of the kitchen, just looking at each other.

"I need to call the girls, would you like to join me? They specifically requested your presence," I roll my eyes then because really, I have raised two very demanding young women.

She agrees and we sit side by side on the sofa, speaking on Skype for nearly an hour. The girls are having fun with their father, mainly because he argued with his new girlfriend and she left with some harsh words and the slam of the front door. She has not come back, and they are delighted to spend time with him, without her around.

It makes me realise just how precious the relationship between my daughters and Andrea is. They always choose to speak to her if they can and they always want to spend time with her. If she chooses to join our family, which I want more than anything, I can't foresee any problems. I truly believe we will all adjust effortlessly to having her in our lives.

Whether I like it or not, I know that my girl's happiness has to come first, and I would never willingly or knowingly put them in a situation where that wasn't true.

I found out far too late that Stephen wasn't a good match for us, but he had us all fooled. He made such an effort with my girls, right up until the day we married but afterwards, their only interactions had been fraught with tension. He ignored them mostly, which they quickly realised was preferable to the alternative. Having his attention on them was unpleasant because he did nothing but reprimand them. For what? For simply being children.

I stay whilst Andrea takes the girls off around the house on a video tour, and I can hear their laughter in the distance as they move from room to room.

I need a moment to gather my thoughts, ready for our upcoming conversation. I am simultaneously hopeful and terrified in equal measure, and the uncertainty I feel is causing my shoulders to ache with tension. I am so scared to know that after we talk, there are only two outcomes.

One. Andrea and I will confess our feelings, and decide that we have a future together. We will leave this house as lovers, preparing to start a family together.

Two. Andrea leaves my side forever, and I spend the rest of my life alone. I know without a shadow of a doubt, that she is the only one for me. If I can't have her, then I want no one.

Before I can spiral any further into my rising despair, Andrea is back, and we both say goodbye to the girls. We decide to have the lasagne for a late lunch, since it is already made. It just requires reheating, and the salad is quick to prepare. Later, if so inclined we can have something lighter for supper.

I am sinking under the tension, and I can see that Andrea is similarly affected. We work side by side, moving around each other cautiously, getting everything ready for our meal. Neither of us is talking, and I hate it. We are never this awkward around each other, and it makes me start to dread the conversation I know we must have.

Dinner is quiet, and for the first time, the silence between us is uncomfortable. I push my dinner away from me and notice her do the same. Still without speaking we clear the dishes together.

Andrea pulls out the bottle of gin for herself, and the whisky for me, and pours us both a large measure. She mixes hers with a tonic and adds a cube of ice to mine.

"So…" she starts but then goes quiet, and I can see her struggling to find the words she wants to say.

"Would you care to join me in the living room?" I suggest, because really, standing in the kitchen is not conducive to a serious conversation. She doesn't offer me a reply but she picks up both of our drinks and walks out of the room.