Page 71 of The Art of Ruin

The thought is sharp, practical, and not particularly comforting.

“Casey?”

His voice comes through the door this time, lower, closer.

“I’m coming,” I reply, moving toward it before I can second-guess myself. I’m dressed in an oversized T-shirt that falls to mid-thigh because the thought of any clothing around my abdomen makes me want to cry. I glance down and shrug, instantly regretting it.

Each step takes more focus than it should; my body is already resisting the movement, but I push through it, reaching the door and pulling it open before I give myself time to hesitate.

He’s standing there exactly as I expect him to be—composed, controlled, his navy wool coat still on, his attention fixed fully on me the second the door opens.

His gaze moves over me once, quick but thorough, taking in more than I’d intended to show, and something in his expression tightens almost imperceptibly.

“You’re not okay.”

His voice is quieter than I expect. Not accusing or angry. It’s more of a statement of fact.

“I told Isabella I had a cold,” I say, stepping back from the doorway to let him in if he wants to. Not that the hallway suddenly feels big enough to keep him out.

His gaze moves over my face too carefully, as if looking for the lie. “That’s not a cold, though, is it?”

Of course it isn’t, but how do you tell your male employer that you have endometriosis and it’s flaring up? Especially when that employer looks like he does. I don’t want to explain my intimate bodily functions to him. I fold my arms across my middle; more habit than defense. “I just need to sleep it off.”

“You should have called me.”

“I texted Isabella.”

“At six-thirty saying you couldn’t come.” His jaw tightens slightly. “That’s not the same thing. You should have told me.”

A flicker of irritation sparks through the exhaustion. “I didn’t realize my health was your concern when I’m off the clock.”

His expression shifts then, something restrained pulling tighter beneath the surface. “You were supposed to be with us. Letty was disappointed.”

The words land harder than they should.

Another cramp rolls through me before I can answer properly, low and deep and nauseating. I brace one hand briefly against the doorframe and breathe through it, willing it to pass quickly.

His eyes drop immediately to the movement.

When I look back up, he’s watching me differently now. Not confused anymore, focused concern etched on his features. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

I hate how gentle the question is. “Yesterday,” I admit.

“And you were still planning to travel?”

“I thought I could manage it.”

“Could you?”

The answer catches somewhere behind my ribs along with the pain. “I’m managing now.” I don’t know why I’m arguing when I’ve already made the decision not to travel.

“You’re barely standing.”

The irritation flares again, mostly because he isn’t entirely wrong. “I said I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look exhausted.”

“Wow, thanks for the compliment.”