Page 25 of Pregnant By the Playboy

“You can eat in the car, I don’t mind,” he says as he pulls away from the curb.

“Umm.” I don’t know much about cars, but I can tell this is a fancy one. And it’s spotless.

My stomach growls.

“Eat the damn falafels, Marissa Chan. My car will survive. It’s important to eat properly during pregnancy.”

I roll my eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know. But let me worry about taking care of the car.”

“Fine. Be that way.”

“I know, I’m so difficult, wanting to make sure you eat enough.”

“Bastard,” I mutter.

He laughs.

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve finished my very tasty falafel sandwich and we’ve arrived at my office.

“Thank you for the ride,” I say.

“You’re welcome. If you need anything, ever, feel free to text me, alright? You’re not doing this alone.”

I smile at Vince, then get out of the car.

Though he’s not the father I imagined for my child, I think this might work out okay.

But I am not going to marry him.

Chapter 10

Marissa

I always do my grocery shopping on Saturday morning.

When I finished grad school and moved out three months later after getting a full-time job, I loved grocery shopping. For the first time in my life, I felt rich.

Of course, I was far from rich, and I still had a small student loan to pay off. But my income more than covered my basic expenses, and I could afford to buy what I wanted at the supermarket.

I bought a pint of blueberries, out of season. Havarti that wasn’t on sale. Halibut rather than cod, even though cod was cheaper. And when I got something from the olive bar, I really felt like I was living the high life.

I bet Vince Fong has no idea what that’s like.

Now grocery shopping has become just another weekly chore, part of the drudgery of being an adult.

But it has never been truly terrible...until today.

I’ve become really sensitive to smells lately, and someone is cooking mushrooms in the goddamn grocery store.

I approach the little table to see what’s going on. An Asian woman, who looks somewhat like my mother, is sautéing mushrooms, which are then placed on top of some kind of fancy cracker with cheese. There’s a large pile of crackers and cheese for sale next to her.

She hands over a napkin with one of the cracker/cheese/mushroom delights, and I don’t want to be rude, so I take it and curse myself for walking up to the table in the first place.

Normally, I like mushrooms. This is the sort of hors d’oeuvre I’d pick up at a party.

Except today, I feel like I’m going to vomit, and now that I’m holding the offending food, the smell is even stronger.