“Uh, no—” I start, but Malina steamrolls right over me.
“Actually, I’m a bit famished.”
Well, shit. Please don’t let her order something that takes longer than five minutes to hit the table. I’m not sure how much time my digestive system has left on the clock.
“I’ll have the duck nachos, please,” she says, smiling as she hands the menu over.
“Coming right up!” the waitress chirps before heading off.
Malina is full of conversation this evening. “I simply can’t believe they expected us to pay full price after the CEO was caughtwith his hand down his assistant’s pants, plummeting their stock prices!”
She’s talking about her latest media acquisition, her words crisp and precise. I nod along like I’m actually processing any of it, but then—another rumble. Louder this time.
Jesus.
If that noise had come from the table instead of me, I’d be reaching for the salt to sprinkle on it.
I take another sip of water, trying to drown the problem before it becomes one. Bad idea. My gut twists like it’s wringing out a towel.
“Are you alright?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Fine,” I manage, smiling in a way that feels… unstable. Not charming, not suave—more like a man who just heard the Jaws theme playing in his intestines. “Just…uh…excuse me.”
I stand up slowly, trying to maintain dignity, but my pace to the bathroom saysfour-alarm emergency. It’s the kind of walk you do when you’re not sure if running will make things better or much, much worse.
Once inside, I make it into the stall just in time to avoid becoming a headline on one of Malina’s own gossip sites. The next few minutes are…well, let’s just say they’re not fit for polite conversation. Not fit for impolite conversation either, honestly.
I text my assistant from the bathroom:Tell Malina I had a work emergency. Apologize. Tell her I’ll call later.
By the time I finally step out, the table where Malina had been sitting is empty. She’s gone and I’m genuinely grateful. Not justbecause she didn’t see me at my most vulnerable. But because, after only a few minutes of conversation, I already knew she’d never light my fire.
She’s beautiful, sure. ‘Engineered in a lab,’ beautiful. But even with all that effortless beauty, there’s nothing in her that sparks anything in me. If anything, the disaster in my stomach feels like divine intervention.
***
I make it home an hour later, ten pounds lighter, ten times angrier, and wondering if my digestive system will ever trust me again. I’m barely through the lobby when Eslin steps out of the building gym, hair pulled back, cheeks flushed from a workout, looking irritatingly pleased with herself. And sexy as hell.
“How was your date this evening?” she asks, smirking.
I stop. Stare. Narrow my eyes, mentally rewinding the night like a crime scene investigator. The last person to see my stomach alive and thriving was Eslin, standing in the living room with that innocent smile she uses when she’s about to be anything but.
The thought hits me. No—she wouldn’t. Especially if she doesn’t want me. Especially if she’s still dating that pompous ass with the perfect white teeth, Coach Jones.
“What,” I say slowly, my voice flat with suspicion, “did you put in my drink?”
She blinks at me, all faux innocence. “Why, Grant, whatever do you mean?”
My stomach growls in answer.
I glare harder. “Eslin, why would you do that?”
She doesn’t answer. She just turns on her heel toward the elevator. The elevator that doesn’t even go to my floor, but I follow her anyway, my pulse hammering.
“Eslin!” I whisper-yell through gritted teeth, trying not to sound like the old man chasing the pretty young thing through the lobby. “Eslin, answer me!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grant!”
The doors slide open and three people shuffle out before we step inside. The second the doors close, it’s just us—too much air and not enough space.
