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“Nope,” I cut him off, standing from the bed and vaulting toward the shower. Nausea sloshed around in my stomach like he’d conjured it with his inane theories. “I told you, it’s the meds.”
“Albuterol does not give you nausea,” he insisted, following me with his toned, perfectly muscular body. “Your breasts and areolas are bigger—”
“Gross.” I scrunched my nose and gagged.
“—and you literally haven’t had a period since we’ve been together in July.”
“Yes, I did,” I argued, stopping, fully naked, to face him and point my finger at him. Then I poked him in the bare chest as he stopped in front of me. “I know I messed up my birth control pills or whatever, and that screwed up my cycle, but I did have one.”
“June,” he glowered, folding his arms. “Yes, you had a one-off period because youmissed your birth control pills, and your calculations are way off because of it. And youkept missing themeven after we refilled it. It’s no wonder you got knocked up.”
“I’m not pregnant,” I insisted, turning on my heel and marching to the open shower.
“Matthews,” he groaned. “You’re killing me. You’re probably more than two months along at this point. You can’t keep ignoring it.”
Yes, I could. Because of course he was right. Amos was a doctor. He wasn’t stupid—he knew what he was talking about, and realistically, I was pretty sure he was right. Once you miss a few birth control pills, it throws things off. And then I missed a few more, and who the hell knew where I was at with my cycles and with a possible…that.
But I couldn’t face that possibility because I was twenty-two, and it was horrifyingly reckless of me to get pregnant that young while living with too-good-to-be-true Amos Brady. This bubble was going to burst eventually, and I couldn’t face that possibility.
My nerves suddenly jangled uncomfortably, and as I reached the shower, my stomach turned sour. Coughing, and giving up all pretenses completely, I fell to my knees in front of the toilet and heaved up bile and breadsticks from my lunch earlier.
Sighing indulgently, Amos kneeled beside me. He’d put on his boxers and T-shirt, and he rubbed my back in soothing circles. “This feels familiar,” he mused.
It wasnotfamiliar. I didn’t like it at all. I’d had random bouts of it, but lately, the nausea had been getting so much worse. I moaned, leaning my head on the sparkling clean seat of his toilet. “Amos,” I groaned.
“I know, love,” he murmured, still rubbing my back.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I growled.
He sighed again. “June. There’s only so much I can do from the sidelines to keep you and the baby safe. You’re going to have to admit it and see an OB at some poi—”
“Shut it,” I muttered.
I saw him wring his hands in my peripheral vision, and I assumed he was mimicking strangling me. “Okay, fine. Let’s get you in the shower at least. Then you can lie down and I’m making you some toast.”
“Okay,” I grumbled, and he helped me into the shower.
As I rinsed under the hot water, leaning my forehead against the Italian marble wall, I tried to quiet my stomach. But it lurched and heaved like that one bout of vomiting had opened the floodgates. It felt like it wasn’t going to let up for a really long time, and that terrified me more than anything else.
I toweled off and slipped one of Amos’ gray T-shirts over my head before climbing into the clean, crisp sheets and lying back on the pillows with a groan. Amos had already cleaned up after our lovemaking session, and he brought me a plate of toast along with a banana and strawberry smoothie.
“This should help with thenot morning sickness,” he offered dryly.
I plucked the plate from his hands. “Thank you very much.” I didn’t want the smoothie, though. The thought made me gag.
“You’re getting thin, June,” he warned, sitting on the bed next to me. “There are medications we can get you that will help.”
I took a bite of toast. “I’m just busy at the school,” I said around a mouthful. Which was true. I’d landed a huge commission painting a mural in a hallway of an elementary school, and it would take me a few months at least. They paid me hourly for my work, and it was the closest I’d gotten to a full-time art profession. Good thing my boss didn’t mind splitting my time between the medical practice and the school.
Amos speared me with a hard look. With an intake of breath, he reached up and smoothed his thumb along my cheek. “June, sweetie, you know I’m here for you, don’t you?”
I stopped chewing, swallowed dry toast down my scratchy throat, and stared at him. My shoulders sagged. “Yeah, I know.”
“And you know evenwhenyou admit what’s really happening here, I’m not going anywhere, right? You’re mine, Cupcake,” he said, his tone turning light. “You’re not going anywhere if I have anything to say about it.”
I bit the inside of my cheek before answering, “I think I know that.”
“Okay, then.” Amos leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “Come around to it when you’re ready.”
