“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Dante goes on. “And how do you know she’s not infectious?”
The entire restaurant is openly staring at us now.
“Sir, please, keep your voice down,” Charles shushes Dante, glancing around nervously.
“Did she fail to mention that she was feeling unwell?” Dante prods, making no effort to lower his volume.
Charles hesitates. “Not exactly. She said—”
“Ah. Yet you didn’t think to assess the severity of her illness in order to determine if she was fit for work.”
“I’m hardly qualified to—”
Dante doesn’t let my boss get a word in edgewise. “Which sheclearlyis not. Which means you could have easily diverted this disaster by properly doingyourdamn job.”
“Sir, please,” Charles pleads, sweat visible at his brow.
“It’s really not so bad,” I cut in. “It’s just a banana.” I turn back to Dante and say, “I’m sure I can get it cleaned up if you’ll just come into the bathroom for a moment. Sir.”
Charles hurriedly agrees and herds us toward the back, yelling at a busboy to come clean up the booth. My husband doesn’t say another word as I lead him into the men’s restroom and lock the door behind us. I can’t help feeling a little pleased to note that he’s looking green around the gills himself as he swallows hard and loosens his tie.
“Are you going to throw up, too?”
He doesn’t respond.
I nudge him with my elbow. “Oh boy. You really are, aren’t you?”
“I have a change of clothes in my car. Go get them.”
I wait for him to say please, but of course he doesn’t.
“Fine,” I say. “I could use some air anyway.”
I leave him there and take the back door into the alley and then make my way to the street, where there’s a line of tourist shops. I don’t bother going to his car, nor do I know which one is his anyway. He never said, and I didn’t ask. Instead, I pop into a nearby tourist trap and grab him a pair of red, white, and blue swim trunks with glittery stars all over the ass. And a bright orange T-shirt that says, “FBI: Female Body Inspector.”
Giggling to myself as I pay with the tip money in my apron, I go back to the diner and knock on the restroom door. When Dante lets me in, I find him in nothing but his briefs, holding on to his keys and his wallet. His suit is stuffed in the trash, and he’s looking considerably less green.
I do a double take at his hard body, the smooth olive skin and tight abs bared for my view. For half a heartbeat, I’m so turned on that I stop breathing.
Pregnancy is clearly doing some things to my hormones, and the urge to jump his bones in this dingy little bathroom is nearly overwhelming.
I thrust the bag at him. “Here. It’s the best I could do.”
He pulls the clothes out of the bag. His cheeks turn red with anger.
“Your car was locked,” I say with a shrug.
“I amnotwearing this.”
“Then don’t. Walk out naked for all I care. Maybe one day you’ll learn to sayplease.”
With that, I glide out of the men’s room and head straight to the break room, silently calculating how many milkshakes are going to come out of my paycheck today—in a concerted effort to push back the wave of horniness still washing over me.
My stomach growls painfully, and I realize I’m hungry again. Damn it all. I press a hand to my abdomen and glance around the break room for something to eat. All I see is an open single-serve package of soup crackers on the table. The crackers look stale and broken, but I dump the whole thing into my mouth anyway.
“Imagine that,” comes a voice from the doorway. “Here you are, not working, once again.”
Fucking Charles.
