Page 102 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

I must make a noise for Isla, once more, peers into my face. "You sure you’re okay Zara?"

"Just hungry." On cue, my stomach growls. I reach for the plate of food, then glance around for a place to put it down.

"Over here." Isla guides me to one of those high-top tables which are at a perfect height to lean on, specifically, one that was pushed to the side behind a large potted plant.

I place the plate of food down on it, then reach for the knife and fork she placed on it, and tuck in. I shovel in the fried mozzarella sticks, then the goat cheese crostini—yum—followed by the glazed pecans, and the turkey avocado pinwheels.

I hail a passing waiter and grab a glass of apple juice from him.

"You’re not having champagne?" she asks, surprised.

"My stomach’s been a little funny with alcohol, of late. With coffee, too, come to think of it. I might have overdone it over Christmas."

"Christmas was nearly three weeks ago," she points out.

"Guess it’s taking a while for my system to stabilize." I raise a shoulder.

"And how long have you had this upset stomach?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. "About a week?"

Silence.

I glance up to find Isla staring at me.

I swallow down the morsel in my mouth and frown. "What?"

"Your stomach seems to tolerate the food okay, though."

"Huh." I glance down at the almost empty plate in front of me. "You should have seen me after I tried to eat breakfast this morning. I couldn’t keep anything down. Actually," —I place the now empty glass down on the table— "it’s been that way this entire week."

"You’ve been sick in the mornings?"

I nod.

"And you haven’t been able to tolerate coffee or alcohol?"

I shake my head slowly.

"Hmm."

I grip the edge of the table with clammy fingers. "Oh, no, no, no. It’s not what you think it is."

"I never said anything," she murmurs.

My heart seems to stop beating for a second, before starting up again. "It can’t be. It can’t be." I glance about the quickly filling room, then back at her. "Can it?"

"You tell me, honey. I assume you’ve been careful with all the horizontal action you’ve indulged in with—"

"Don’t say his name," I rasp.

She raises her hands. "Okay."

"I’m on birth control." I grip the table tighter. "I can’t be, I really can’t be…" I can’t say the P word. If I do, it will all seem very real. Besides, I don’t need to say it aloud. "I’m not…you know." I tilt up my chin.

"Didn’t say you were. But maybe it’s worth testing?"

"Testing?" I feel the blood drain from my face.

"A—that word that I should not speak right now— test?" she says gently.

"Right." My head feels like it’s dissociated from my body. I’m having an out-of-body experience. That’s the only explanation for this strange conversation I’m having.

"Zara, babe. It’s going to be okay." She wraps her arm about my shoulder. "You’re going to be okay."

"There you are." Liam materializes next to Isla, then glances between us. "Everything okay?"

"Of course," both of us say at the same time.

His forehead furrows, but he doesn’t push it. "There’s someone I want you to meet," he tells Isla.

"Oh, but I want to stay with Zara," she protests.

"Nonsense, I’m fine, you go with Liam." I insist.

"It’s not urgent," he starts, but I wave him off.

"Please, take your pretty wife and go mingle. That’s what this shindig is for, after all."

"But—" Isla starts.

I turn and hug her. "I’m fine, and if I need anything, I’ll message you."

She hugs me back. "Promise?"

"I promise."

She steps back and squeezes my shoulder. "You let me know how everything goes, okay?"

I swallow, knowing she’s referring to the thing-I-shall-not-call-by-name test. "Okay," I manage to say in a voice that sounds nothing like the little butterflies of nervousness that have taken wing in my stomach.

She nods, then Liam takes her hand, and they walk away.

I stand at the table for a few more seconds.

This is so not like me, hiding in a corner.

I need to follow my own advice and get into the thick of things and live up to my reputation as The Shark.

The woman who loves to mingle and talk to people, and keep her ear to the ground and find out the latest gossip doing the rounds—which at the moment, is not me, yet.

My stomach curls in on itself. No, no, no, I’m not going to be sick, not now.

I drain my glass of juice. To my relief, my stomach rights itself. Okay, that’s good.

I grab my little bag and walk toward the crowd.

The orchestra has struck up a waltz, and some of the guests have taken to the dance floor.

The chandeliers in the ceiling pick out the colors of the dresses worn by the women.

Tiny lights strung up at intervals turn the entire space into a fairytale setting.

The architecture of the building is in the style of the Italian Renaissance, and it lends a storybook feel to the event.

Someone steps up to me. "Would you like to dance?" a voice asks from somewhere above me.

I turn to face a man whose features are familiar. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair. Dressed in the obligatory coat tails, he looks dashing. Of course, he’s not Hunter. Maybe it’s time I stop thinking of Hunter for a while.

I take his proffered hand. "Why not?"