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My hands rub my stomach, hoping to feel a sense of ease, and I take a big breath. We might have more than a wedding and a collection on our hands.
Tanner places his hand on my knee, aiming to comfort me.
“Elsa, what’s going on?” He snaps me out of my thoughts, and I look at him.
I stay silent for a moment, assessing him, trying to figure out what it would be like if I was carrying his child.
If he, in fact, did put a baby in me.
I flashback to when he told me he would put a baby in me as he fucked me on camera, and a surge of nausea thrashes into me. I gag.
This is too fucking surreal.
I cradle my head in my hands, and I search to make some sense of what’s happening.
We’re too close for this to blow up in our faces now. And we’ve done too much to get to this point—our companies profitable again and us not on the verge of getting fired.
There’s way too much on the line to tell him. And to worry him for possibly no reason at all.
Who knows if my suspicions are right? Even if everything in me is telling me I am.
“Elsa?”
Shit, I should answer him. I completely forgot what he asked. I’m too wrapped up in my own world that I’m barely in this one.
“What’d you say?”
He clears his throat, a sign he’s annoyed, pissed, or perhaps both.
“What’s going on?” He pauses after ever word, enunciating as if he’s speaking to a child.
“Like I told you, nothing is going on. I am fine.” I respond in the same manner.
“You really don’t look like it,” he scolds.
“Excuse me?”
I can’t deny he’s wrong. For the first time—in a very long time—I know I don’t look good. And I know for a fact that watching someone throw up is very unappealing. Especially given what I threw up and what I threw up in.
So, yeah, I know I don’t look good.
But I won’t let him have it. If I admitted to that, he would definitely know something is up.
And I’m not starting fires for no reason—at least before we know for sure.
“You puked. How in the hell does someone come back from that looking fine?” His tone is serious, with a detectable hint of sarcasm.
“You’re supposed to say that I do come back looking more than fine.” I lean back in the chair and cross my arms.
My weakness is slowly dissolving, and I feel my body coming back to life.
“Okay, fine. You look fine, Elsa. Now, tell me what the fuck is going on.” Each time he says fine, the tone gets sharper and louder. He’s getting more and more irritated.
Well, so am I. I’m fucking livid, actually.
This dreadful reality starts to pour, drowning me—I’m three days late with morning sickness, and it’s all because I didn’t use protection with my pretend fiancé who I made a sex tape with.
Fuck me.
