Page 45 of Claimed By the Boss

She looks at me curiously. “They’re the same beans we always use.”

“Well, they’ve turned into something evil overnight.”

I grab a banana and sit down across from her, trying to will away the nausea curling low in my stomach. I take one bite and immediately regret it. The texture feels wrong. Like glue. I swallow and push the rest of it away.

“Okay,” Becca says, pointing her spoon at me. “What’s going on with you?”

I shrug. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

I glare at her, but it’s weak. She knows me too well.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I woke up with this awful feeling in my stomach. It’s not pain exactly, but it just feels off. And now everything smells disgusting and the idea of food is gross to me.”

Becca sets her spoon down and leans forward. “Are you stressed?”

“Probably,” I mumble. “Work’s been insane, and—” I stop short, not wanting to say Damien’s name out loud.

“And…?”

I shrug. “Just life. I’m sure it was something I ate. Maybe the pasta I had for dinner was off.”

She watches me for a second, then tilts her head. “When did you have your last period?”

If I’d been drinking anything, I would have spit it at her. “Excuse me? How’s that any of your business?”

“Because I always stock the bathroom with tampons, and I didn’t have to buy as many this month.”

My heart thuds once heavily as I consider this. I do a mental count, then do it again. My mouth goes dry. “I don’t know. A few weeks ago?”

Becca raises both eyebrows as if she’s not convinced of my counting skills.

“Okay, maybe longer.”

“Lyra…” she starts.

“No,” I say quickly. “No, it’s not that. I can’t be pregnant.”

She folds her arms. “You can’t be or don’t want to be?”

“Both!” I sputter, unable to believe we’re actually having this conversation.

“You’ve been with Damien almost every day for the last month,” she says softly, not judging, just confirming.

I look down at the table, unable to meet her eyes. “That’s true,” I reluctantly admit.

“Were you guys using anything?”

“We were careful,” I mutter, unable to meet her eyes.

Becca doesn’t say anything to that.

“I mean, it’s possible,” I mutter. “But it can’t be that. Right? I probably just caught a stomach bug or something. That restaurant kitchen didn’t look great.”

“Your aunt’s been eating there for years, right?”

“So what?” I argue. “Maybe they had an off batch of meat or something.”