“Honestly, Gem?” I’d said.
But honestly, I didn’t know what I was asking myself to do differently.
Or why exactly I was so disgusted with myself.
But I was.
I slink into the office fifteen minutes late and sit down on my doughnut pillow. I turn on my computer and enter my password. When I type it in, the bandage covering the blood draw puncture pulls at my skin. The phlebotomist had to dig around with her needle to find the vein and I think it left a bruise.
But that’s okay. Because in a few hours, I’ll know. The pee on a stick method isn’t as sensitive as the blood draw. All those negatives over the weekend mean nothing. Today my blood test will tell me.
Pregnant or not pregnant.
Pregnant or not pregnant.
I should’ve called in sick. I look around the office. The lights to Ian’s office are still turned off. Thank goodness, I don’t know how I’m going to face him. Every time I think about seeing him I get a queasy feeling in my stomach. What am I supposed to say?
He’s my boss.
And I can’t just quit my job. I’ve always loved working here. Truly.
I sigh and turn away from the door to Ian’s office.
Lavinia is watching me. She gives me her sour, the-plants-are-wilting-and-the-printer-is-malfunctioning, it’s-Monday-morning look. She’s about to say something, but when she sees my expression she stops, frowns and then says, “The salami was bad? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Ugh.
Why?
It isn’t any of her business, it really isn’t.
“Lavinia, for your information, I don’t eat salami. In fact, I loathe salami. Okay? I really, really loathe salami.”
Lavinia’s mouth purses, like she’s sucking on a lemon. She looks over at Ian’s office, then back to me, and shrugs. That’s it. Just a shrug. Then, “The plants are wilting. You should move them to the sun.”
I glance around the office and shake my head. There is no sun. Our loft-style, open-concept office space has four walls of brick, plaster and painted quotes. The only space with windows is Ian’s office. He has a whole wall of them.
I’m about to tell Lavinia so when her eyes widen and her mouth puckers even more. I look behind me to see what’s gotten her so worked up.
It’s Ian.
I’d like to say that he has bags under his eyes, messy hair, and sloppy clothes. I’d like to say that he looks like hell.
But I can’t.
Even with a slightly swollen nose, and a light purple bruise under his left eye, he looks just as gorgeous, just as prime-time-TV ready as ever. When he sees me at my desk, a happy smile lights his features and I swear one of the interns across the office sighs in appreciation of his man-beauty.
“Gemma,” he says, and his voice carries around the open space.
I drop my head, and my stomach clenches into a tight nervous ball.
“Glad you made it. Can I talk to you in my office for a moment?”
I look down at the floor, at Ian’s perfectly polished black dress shoes, and squeeze my eyes shut. I feel like I’m going to puke. Honest to goodness.
Symptom?
No.
Just my emotions finally catching up to me. Ian. The man I worshiped for seven years is a certified douche and now he wants to talk to me about it in private.
I’d like to say, “I’d rather not,” but that would cause more gossip among my colleagues than getting up and walking nonchalantly to his office.
So I stand up and follow him.
Lord, let this be a lesson to every woman that has ever thought about getting involved with her boss. Don’t do it. Just say no. It won’t end well.
Because for the foreseeable future I have to show up at work and promote Ian Fortune to the world and pretend that he’s an enlightened shining example of manhood. When, in reality, he’s not.
When we’re inside Ian’s private domain, he strolls to the back of the space, farther from the door, toward the putting green and the large indoor koi pond. I follow after him, my stomach rolling around. I shouldn’t have eaten those blueberry waffles with sausages and orange juice for breakfast. I really, really shouldn’t have.
I press my hand to my stomach.
“I want to apologize,” he begins.
“Alright.”
“I like you, Gemma. I really like you.”
I look closely at Ian. He seems sincere. In fact, he looks really broken up about everything.
He’s about to say more, but I interrupt him. “Why?”
He rubs his thick hair back from his forehead. “Uh. Why what?”
“Why do you like me? And don’t give me that crap about seeing my heart. You don’t know me, not really.”
Ian takes a step toward me. The cologne he’s wearing is crazy strong, gag-worthy strong. It smells like Pine-Sol and musty wood shavings. My stomach rolls.
He gives me his guru smile, “Gemma. We’re both incomplete souls, looking for the other half.”
Oh jeez.
That’s from his first book, chapter twelve, page one eighty-two.
What a tool.
I take another breath and my stomach rolls again.
“The first time I saw you,” he continues earnestly, “I knew that you were imperfect, self-conscious, lacking. There are people who win in life, and there are people who lose. You’re one of the losers, Gemma. Hell, me too, you’ve seen it, but together, we could win.”
I stare at him in shock and press my hand against my abdomen.
“What do you say?” he asks.
He holds out his hand, and I stare at his long, elegant fingers.
“Gemma?”
I shake my head. The room tilts like a boat tossing in New York harbor. My skin goes clammy cold, and then I know, I know— “What do you say?”
“I’m gonna be sick,” I gasp.