Page 86 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

My voice drops to the tiniest whisper. “I’m … pretty sure I’m pregnant.”

The words hang in the air, as foreign as if I’d just spoken them in another language. Mia’s eyes widen, a slow, steady gasp escaping her lips. “Are you serious?”

I nod, still too stunned to manage anything beyond that.

“Oh, Holly,” she murmurs, squeezing my hand. “How are you feeling about it?”

“It’s just a lot.” The words come out on a shaky laugh. “One moment I’m organizing Christmas events, and now, it’s like—bam! —instant life change. And with everything going on with Ethan, I just don’t know.”

Mia’s gaze softens. “Are you going to tell him?”

A chill runs through me, as if a tiny snowflakes melted on the back of my neck. “I don’t know yet. I can’t — not until I know what’s happening with him. He’s been so off. Secretive.”

“Take things slow,” Mia advises, patting my shoulder. “But if it all gets too much, you’re welcome to stay with Lauren or me. No need to stew over it alone.”

Relief washes over me, taking the edge off the whirlwind of emotions. “Thanks, Mia. I’ll think about it.”

The café hums with soft conversation and clinking mugs as I gather myself. Everything feels so loud and intense — like every heartbeat, every breath is amplified. But Mia’s calm presence, her offer of a safe haven, soothes the chaos inside, if only for a little while.

A sense of quiet resolve settles over me. There’s the Christmas gala to plan, a swirling mess of emotions to sort through, and yes, a little secret growing inside me — one that will stay safe until I’m ready to share it.

28

ETHAN

The morning suncuts through the window blinds, casting shadows across the kitchen like some kind of accusatory art installation. It’s as if even the light is pointing fingers. So, today’s the day. The grand gesture to end all gestures. Holly’s favorite breakfast—scrambled eggs, buttery croissants, and a fruit parfait so colorful it looks like a Pinterest post—is almost ready. And yes, a big heaping side of apology comes with it.

Maybe it’s not flowers or a candlelit dinner, but it’s effort. It’s the kind of thing that shouts,hey, I’m really trying here.

I hear footsteps. She’s coming down. Holly steps into the kitchen, and there she is, wrapped in a messy bun, an oversized hoodie, and a look that could split granite. Those usually sparkling eyes are dull, shadowed, like they’ve somehow absorbed every frustrating thing I’ve done over the past week and decided to reflect it right back at me. So, this is how it ends—not with a bang, but with a bun and a stare.

“Good morning,” I try, aiming for light, casual, unbothered.

“What’s this?”

“I made you breakfast, Holly.”

Her arms fold over her chest. The look says it all; she’s about as interested in this breakfast as a cat in a bathtub. “Not hungry.”

Not hungry? My mouth twitches. Not even a bite, a sniff, an ounce of polite nibbling for effort’s sake? But no. She turns on her heel, ready to leave, and something snaps. “So, that’s it? You just blow me off?”

She pauses, her back to me, stiff as a board. Then, slowly, she turns. There’s that smirk, the kind that would be cute if it didn’t look like she’d been bottling it up for days. “Look, Ethan, I need space. Not this … show.”

This show.The words hit hard, irritation tugging at the edges of composure. “A show, huh?” The words barely leave a whisper. “You treating me like I’m invisible lately is the show here. Might as well be part of the wallpaper.”

Her eyes flash, a fire behind the surface. “You just don’t get it.”

Don’t get it? The spark of frustration ignites.Does she think I haven’t noticed the looks, the distance, the constant ‘not right nows?’“So, make me understand,” it comes out more of a challenge than intended.

A silence thick as snow falls over us, until her gaze narrows, sharpened by some emotion she keeps buried. Holly’s jaw tightens, her voice just as raw. “You don’t want the truth.”

A tremor of uncertainty settles in. But a simple, insistent need for answers hardens the resolve. “Try me.”

“You try it first, Ethan,” she spits out, her voice sharper than the knives on the counter. “You’re not exactly in a place to demand the truth from anyone.”

My fists clench around the dish towel. “What do you even mean? How am I supposed to know the problem when you won’t even open up to me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’re acting like you’ve got some deep, dark secret life.” Her voice rings through thekitchen like a bell of doom. “You think I haven’t noticed all the disappearing acts, the phone calls outside? What exactly are you hiding from me, Ethan?”

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