Page 72 of Boss Daddy

“On my way.”

Mark hangs up, and it’s just me and Samuel again.

“Duty calls,” I say.

“It would appear that way.”

I bite my lip. “I’ll see you later in the shift, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I turn to leave, but Samuel pulls me back, turning me toward him and pulling me into a slow, deep kiss. His tongue probes my mouth, and I moan into his lips. He places his hand between mythighs, rubbing my now-soaked pussy through my jeans. I sigh, the pleasure instantly flowing through me.

But just as I think he might be down for some pre-shift fun, he pulls away.

“You heard the man,” he says with a smirk. “You’re needed up front.”

I laugh. “You’re a tease, you know that?”

“And you love it.”

“Maybe.”

By the time I get back to the bar, the place is buzzing. Customers line the counter, chatting and laughing, and the energy feels like a weekend night, not a Thursday. Mark’s already juggling orders when I step behind the bar.

“About time,” he teases, handing me a drink tray. “You ready to work?”

“Always.”

For the next forty-five minutes, we barely get a breather. Drink orders come in rapid-fire but being busy feels good. It’s a distraction, a rush, a reminder of why I love this job.

Mark and I work seamlessly, barking out orders to each other, tossing bottles and cracking jokes.For a short while, everything feels normal again.

Then the rush starts to fade. The crowd in front of the bar thins. Seemingly everyone who’s there is seated or chatting on the dance floor.I let out a breath I’d been holding since the rush started.

“I’m heading to the bathroom,” I tell Mark, grabbing my backpack from the corner.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves me off with a grin. “Try not to fall in.”

I laugh, flipping him off playfully as I walk away.

As I push open the door to the back halls, my stomach churns slightly, and I press a hand to it. It’s probably just the adrenaline from the rush or maybe the burger I scarfed down earlier, but the nausea has been lingering all day.

In fact, nausea’s been coming and going for the last week or so. And it’s been getting worse.I can only assume it’s from the stress Misha’s bullshit has been putting on me.

I dig into my backpack as I head toward the bathroom, fishing out some ibuprofen. I figure I might be about to start my period—that would explain the weird mood and the nausea. But as I walk, something niggles at the back of my mind.

When was my last period?

The thought stops me cold for a second and I frown, trying to remember. It was... what, five weeks ago? No, longer than that. I started working for Samuel at least five weeks ago.

I do some quick math in my head. I should have started two weeks ago, give or take a few days. I’m never late. My periods come like clockwork.

My thoughts begin to spiral. When did Samuel and I first sleep together? That was about three weeks ago. I think.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My stomach twists again, but this time it’s not from nausea. It’s from realization.

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