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Thank god for Nat.
Regardless, I had no idea if I could a) trust Seb to reciprocate my desire to take things further, b) trust my hot-headed brother to not murder Seb, or c) trust my own feelings.
It took Nat’s levelheaded approach to allow me to think about it rationally. Without her, I’d have been in my bedroom with the lights out, curled up in a ball in the corner, drool running down my chin as I rocked back and forth and muttered a bunch of nonsense.
Even with Nat’s guiding presence, and despite the fact I wasn’t curled in said ball, I couldn’t be positive there wouldn’t be a straight-jacket, a padded room, and a huge orderly named Lars, at some point in my future.
It was so unfair. Cupid and his stupid, defective arrow. I wanted to throttle the conniving, diaper-clad, pudgy-cheeked baby. Screw him and his sick sense of humor, using his power to strike the heart of the most inconvenient man to walk the earth and make me fall for him.
Cupid. What a brat.
Five days later, three since Nat flew back to DC—but hey, who's counting?—my phone blew up. Of course, because all things unfortunate tend to find me like a heat-seeking missile, I was at work when it happened. In a meeting. With the entire department. And two corporate bigwigs.
I entered the conference room, took my seat, and set notifications to vibrate. Generally, vibrate did the trick. When you get a single random text or call. When it buzzes eight times in a row and keeps going and going, again, and again, and again, well, that’s anoth
er story.
Unfortunately, vibrate didn’t stop everyone seated in a five-foot radius from turning their heads in sync to stare at me. It gave me the creeps, like my coworkers were a bunch of cyborgs with identical programming. I bit the inside of my cheek to squelch my nervous laugh.
My cheeks burned as I fumbled to silence the phone, and, because on a scale of one to ten, my luck is negative six, when I finally pulled it from my messenger bag, it began to vibrate again. Surprised, I squealed and the phone bounced off the table and onto my lap.
Kill. Me. Now.
My embarrassment was short-lived. I looked down and saw the screen and the oxygen got sucked out of the room. Heat scurried up my spine, and turned into a hot, prickling awareness that began at my scalp and trickled all the way down to my toes.
Aware that I wasn’t alone, and everyone was probably looking at me, I pretended nothing was wrong. Then I glanced at the flurry of text and missed call notifications covering the locked screen, every last one sent by the same person, and grew concerned. They were all from Seb.
Despite the subarctic climate of the conference room and the gale force winds that blew from the vent directly above my head, sweat beaded along my upper lip and my blouse stuck to my lower back. When I bent down to slide the phone back into my bag, my hands visibly trembled.
“Kylie?” I jerked upright and nearly knocked myself unconscious on the edge of the table.
“Whoa.” Headrush.
I squeezed my eyes shut, counted to three, then opened them up slowly. The room continued to list to one side, then the other. Faces were indistinct blobs of color and the lights in the ceiling shone brighter than usual.
“Kylie? You don’t look so good. Are… are you okay?”
Piper.
“I think…” Nausea burned my throat and I panicked as it crawled toward my mouth. Terrified I might get sick all over the conference table—or worse, one of the executives (don’t forget, bad luck magnet)—I pushed up from my chair and rose onto shaky legs. “Excuse me,” I muttered, already halfway to the door.
Misfortune must have taken a coffee break, because I made it to the ladies’ room in time to duck into a stall before I upchucked the croissant I stuffed down on the drive to work. To my surprise, I felt instantaneously better after ejecting the offending pastry.
I flushed and stumbled to the faucets, wet a paper towel, and leaned heavily on the sink to dab at my pale, sweaty face. Relieved I only made half an ass of myself instead of full-ass had I barfed on someone, I tossed the crumpled paper in the wastebasket and got busy washing my hands. While I lathered, I made the mistake of glancing at the mirror. I froze.
Ohmygod, Rocco wasn’t kidding. I had changed.
To the point I didn't recognize my own reflection. Bright eyes looked dull and tired. Two huge, dark circles curved beneath them to further emphasize how exhausted I felt. If I subtracted my vomit-induced flushed cheeks from the equation, the rest of my complexion was waxy and washed out. I turned sideways and studied my profile as I ran a hand down my abdomen. My hip bones stuck out and my face appeared gaunt. Almost sunken.
Somewhere along the way, I lost several pounds and hadn’t noticed.
I lifted a hand to touch a too-prominent cheekbone and whispered, “What is happening to me?”
The bathroom door opened and I stumbled back from the sink. As I lost my footing, my hands slapped the flow of water and it sprayed all over my front. Two women entered, chatting and laughing, oblivious to my nightmare. I snatched a handful of paper towels and blotted uselessly at the ruined silk of my blouse. Tears stung my eyes, but I’d be damned if I broke down in the bathroom at CNN. I patted some more, which did absolutely nothing to mask the large, semi-transparent, splotch that stretched across my left breast.
I inhaled through my nose. Do not cry.
With my lace bra showing through the wet spot and paper towels clutched in my fist, I bolted from the bathroom and went straight to my car. I needed a moment to get it together. By the time I returned to the conference room, mostly certain I wouldn’t lose my shit, the meeting had ended. Of course. I peeked under the table. No bag.
