Page 32 of My Ex’s Dad

It can’t be PMS if I’m already late for my period. It feels so cliché to blame my anger on all of it—the breakup, the betrayal, my parents’ medical stuff, and their bakery nearly closing while a loan shark scrambles to grab every penny he can from us.

But if this is a hormonal thing going on, the numbers and dates aren’t lying.

I’m late.

Seriously late.

All the nerves from that morning come rushing back—when a driver told me Anton had already left the vacation house and arranged a ride for me. I’d woken up with a slight twinge of regret that we’d had unprotected sex. Those worries flood me again now.

Oh, God.

I shoot to my feet, wide awake, adrenaline and panic fueling me. Dizzy and maybe a little delirious with the wild thoughts racing through my head, I snatch my purse and ignore how unsteady I feel.

Without stopping to grab a coat or to even tell Rob, Margarita, or Jenni that I’m running out to the closest pharmacy, I wind my way through the kitchen and bakery.

“You!” Markus stands on the other side of the front counter, glaring at me. He points his finger at me as I come into his view. “You’re the ‘supervisor’ around here, aren’t you?”

I have no time for this.

Literally none.

My heart bangs against my ribcage and I barely catch my breath. That’s how panicked I am.

“Yeah, you better look scared, little girl,” he snarls smugly. “You think you can avoid my calls and voicemails?” He takes a step toward me, and that little dose of predatory attitude is the switch I didn’t need flipped.

“Fuck. You.” I flip him the middle finger for good measure. “I don’t have time for you.”

“Then you make time, girl.” He scoffs and gives me a once over, as if he finds me lacking. “Because when I say we need to discuss the details of our agreement, you stop, drop, and listen.”

I open the flap in the counter that serves as a barrier to the area behind the counter then let it slam down once I’m through. Facing off with this brute isn’t something I want to waste a second of my time on.

“You are not the boss of me,” I shoot back, fuming. “Get out of my way!”

“I’m the boss when I say we need to—” He stops short and looks down at his phone. Grimacing, he lifts the device to answer it. “Yes, sir?”

Clearly, he’s able to listen to his boss.

I roll my eyes and sidestep him. He’s not intimidating me today. Or ever again, dammit. We’re paying on that loan as it is and that’s that.

“Hold it,” he tells me as he listens to whoever called.

“No. I’m not holding it. I’m not waiting. And I’m not standing around here listening to whatever you think you need to tell me.” I yank my arm free of his grip, daring him to touch me again.

“Move it,” I order.

He barely covers his phone. “You are going to wait,” he argues. “You and I need to discuss the terms⁠—”

I growl and shove him with both hands. It barely moves him, but I can’t bring myself to care. The smell of his cologne turns my stomach, one more little clue that freaks me out. It’s not the first time an ordinary smell has made me want to gag.

Thoroughly frantic to grab a test and find out if I’m pregnant, or just losing my mind under all the stress, I step around him and rush out of the bakery.

14

ANTON

“Once again,” I tell the owner of the hotel where Roman caused damage from a wild all-nighter, “my apologies.”

She arches one thin brow at me and lets out a slow breath, like she doubts she can take my word for it.