Page 43 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

“I’m going to get you some ginger ale. You’re going to sit down. And we’ll reschedule. No pressure, no judgment. And if it helps your ego, I’ll tell everyone I overwhelmed you with my charm.”

Despite everything, I laugh.

It’s breathy and weak and definitely doesn’t erase the mortification, but it helps.

And so does the way he helps me to a nearby chair, brings me a bottle of cold ginger ale, and crouches in front of me like he’s not worried about his very expensive pants touching the floor.

“Let me get you home,” he says. “You can dazzle me next time.”

I nod, throat thick. “Okay.”

“Good.” He offers me a crooked smile punctuated by perfect dimples. “Though I gotta say, that’s the first time I’ve ever made a woman throw up on sight. I’m flattered.”

I groan into my hands. “Please stop.”

He chuckles. “Never.”

And somehow, I know he means it.

Chapter13

Gen

I’m not better.

I thought I was. Thought I could chalk it up to stress or fatigue or whatever vague word people use when their bodies rebel. But it’s been over a week since I nearly fainted and vomited my entire breakfast at Silas’s tasting meeting and I’m still dragging.

Some days are fine. Others, not so much. Honestly, I’ve been taking it hour by hour.

My stomach twists at the smell of Evie’s favorite lavender detergent, and coffee—once my emotional support beverage—is now a full-body betrayal. I’ve thrown up several times this week. Once at the sight of soft-boiled eggs. Once just because some guy at the grocery store was wearing too much cologne.

But I’ve been busy. Between circling back on Silas’s gala venue, updating Max’s concept deck, and scheduling a walkthrough for a bridal shower client with far too many opinions about flowers, I haven’t had time to spiral.

Until this morning.

I’m curled up on the couch with a blanket around my shoulders and dry toast on my plate, pretending I’m not trying to keep down a glass of ginger ale, when Evie strolls into the room mid-scroll. She pauses in the doorway, looks at me, looks at the toast, then tilts her head.

“You’re not dying, are you?”

“No.” I clear my throat. “Just queasy.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. “And the day before that. And also the day you almost passed out in the catering kitchen.”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’re never just tired.” She sits on the edge of the coffee table, her expression shifting from curious to suspicious in the space of a breath. “You’re pale. And unless you’re secretly auditioning for a ginger ale sponsorship, I’m gonna say you’ve been drinking too much of that stuff.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And we both know it.” She leans in. “When was your last period?”

The question lands with the kind of quiet horror that no one prepares you for.

My heart skips. Stutters actually.

I blink. “I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”