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.
And Ian must think that I’m talking about his speech, because he steps forward, as if to convince me otherwise. But that was a mistake, because right as he steps toward me I gag and that plate of blueberry waffles and maple syrup and that pile of sausage links and all that orange juice comes riding up and I spew all over Ian Fortune’s perfect face.
It’s like a scene from a horror movie. There are blueberries in the vomit, and it’s bright orange and chunky from half-digested food. And it keeps coming. I keep gagging and every time I pull in another breath I smell Ian’s cologne and I start up again.
He shouts out in shock and stumbles away from me. He wipes at his face, trying to clear off the vomit, but as he stumbles back, he trips over the rocks at the edge of his ornate indoor koi pond.
I’ve stopped gagging, there’s nothing left in my stomach. So, I wipe my eyes and watch in horror as Ian cartwheels over the rocks and plunges into his fish pond. The water rolls over the edge and splashes onto the floor.
Oh no. Oh no.
I rush forward. But, oh, that makes my stomach hurt. I grab my abdomen and watch as Ian splashes around and then comes sputtering up to the surface of the shallow water. His expensive suit is drenched and a lily pad hangs from his shoulder. There’s a bit of water weed in his hair, which is plastered to his head, and the koi fish have swarmed him and are starting to nibble at the blueberries stuck to his jacket.
I have to say it. Ian Fortune doesn’t look sexy. He looks like a tool. A puke and pond weed-covered tool.
He shakes his head and the water flies from his wet hair and splashes against my sweater. Then he forcefully rubs the water from his eyes and his face.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snarls.
My face drains of blood, and I realize that I don’t need any test results, because what’s wrong with me, is…I’m pregnant.
I can’t help it, the biggest, happiest smile breaks out across my face.
This is the best day, the absolute best day of my life.
I can’t wait to tell Josh.
“What are you smiling at?” Ian grinds out through his teeth.
“I’m taking a sick day,” I say with a beaming smile. I start toward the door and call over my shoulder, “Really sorry. Sorry about the fish and…stuff. Also, no thank you. I’m not a loser. The only way I’d be one is if I kept dating you.”
I hear him smacking around in the water, swearing and snarling. But I can’t be bothered to care. I’m pregnant, I think I’m pregnant, puking on your boss is a symptom of being pregnant, isn’t it? I’m pregnant. I can’t wait to tell Josh. I can’t wait to get my results. I can’t wait.