Page 145 of Puck Prince

Because no, I’m not okay. What I am is pregnant. With your baby, actually. And I’m hiding it because this is a temporary fling with permanent consequences. Also, my ex is stalking me, your creepy teammate keeps hitting on me, and I can’t stop throwing up. I’m far from okay.

“I’m fine.”

Owen nods, but the way he strokes the back of his hand along my cheek tells me he isn't convinced. “We can leave if you want. I know Miles being here might be weird for you.”

“We’re on a double date with two people who hate each other. It was weird the moment we got here.”

“Fair enough,” he admits. “But still, we can leave whenever you want. All you have to do is squeeze my hand, and I’ll make an excuse for why we need to dine and dip.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like you look like a Grecian goddess in that dress, and I need to get you home so I can rip it off of you with my teeth.”

I laugh, but the waitress reaches the table at the same time we do. My salad looks delicious, but my stomach bottoms out whenI see the Branzino on Lance’s plate. Nothing kills the mood, or my appetite, for that matter, more than a dead sea bass staring up at you from the table.

I squeeze Owen’s hand, hard.

“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asks.

Owen raises a polite finger. “Actually, I need these two plates boxed up, please. Also, the check.”

Note to self: kiss this man later.

41

CALLIE

“I know I’m not your real boyfriend, but you need to go to a doctor.”

Owen is leaning against the bathroom door frame, shirtless and wearing gym pants that hang low on his chiseled hips.

I have a great view of him from where I’m huddled on the bathroom floor.

As if being reminded my relationship with this scientifically perfect model of the male form while I’m hugging a toilet isn’t enough, I also dry heave in the middle of it. Because life is cruel and unfair.

I don’t say anything—partially because of the dry heaving. But also, I’m well aware at this point that something isn’t right here. I’ve heard babies might need nutrients to grow, but I haven’t kept anything down in days.

“It’s been going on too long to be food poisoning. And if it was a bug, I’d have it too.”

He’s got that right. Between bouts of nausea, we’ve been making the most of our new living arrangements. We’ve been swapping germs on the daily.

I look back at him, wiping my mouth with a towel. “It’s just stress. I mean, I’m living with my boyfriend because my ex is a psycho and lying to everyone I know. That’s stressful.”

“You’re lying to help people, though. What you’re doing is noble. You should be proud.”

Owen might actually feel that way, which makes me even more ashamed. This probably isn’t stress or morning sickness—it’s karmic vomiting. This is the price I must pay for not telling Owen about the baby.

“And if puking for days at a time is your way of handling stress,” he continues, “then you definitely need to see a doctor. That can’t be normal.”

“Thanks for that. I feel so much better now,” I mumble as I stand up. I flush the toilet and go to walk around him, but he blocks the doorway with his hard body.

“I know I can’t tell you what to do?—”

I bark out a laugh. “You basically kidnapped me onto your balcony, told my uncle we were dating, and are now holding my apartment keys ransom so I’ll live with you. All you do is tell me what to do, Owen.”

He smiles like I just read off a list of his biggest accomplishments. “You’re right. And they’ve all been such objectively good decisions. Here’s another one: we’re going to the doctor.”

I shove past him, ignoring the warmth of his body against mine. My refractory period between vomming and sex is obscenely small, apparently.

---