He squints his eyes and tilts his head, questioning me.
“We pretty much ate the same thing, and I feel fine.”
Once he says that, I immediately start to feel faint, my blood draining from me. I am now acutely aware of that fact.
And that’s what I’m afraid of, but I can’t tell him.
“Still, you never know with French food. We had different meals, so it was probably what I ate.” I piece together the most convincing case for my random food poisoning, but I can tell he isn’t buying it.
“But we both had fish. It’d be prepared the same way.”
“Tanner, seriously! I have no fucking idea. I’m assuming it’s food poisoning because there’s nothing else it could be.” My anger starts to get the best of me.
I’m not mad at him, though; I’m frustrated that I can’t convince him, let alone myself, that me puking—in the morning—is due to food poisoning.
All signs point to something more permanent and life-changing. A type of thing that you can’t get from a restaurant or purchase last-minute.
I clutch onto the bag and stumble on my feet, feeling more light-headed as this reality punches me in the gut.
“Let me take that. Come sit over here with me.” Tanner takes my designer puke bag and guides me over to two plush chairs off to the side of the coat rack. “Do you need me to get you something?”
I sit down, and I melt when I see his expression.
He’s sincerity warms me, and from the looks of it, he’s genuinely interested in taking care of me. I knew he was charming, but this is heartening.
I shake my head, declining his help while also ridding myself of these thoughts.
But like him, they keep nagging at me.
And this damn gut feeling begins to suffocate me.
Okay, I need to calm down and do the logistics. That’s what I’ve always relied on in dire situations.
Looking down at my fingers, I do the math. I count how many days it’s been since my last period and when I should’ve started this month.
It was three fucking days ago.
Shit…
So, according to my calculations, I’m three days late.
But it’s not something to freak out about yet—though the sudden bout of sickness in the morning isn’t exactly comforting.
I also remember—in fact, I clearly remember—using protection when we made our sex tape.
Right?
No, we didn’t. I can’t even find a moment during the night when that was discussed.
Humiliation spreads through me, and my cheeks blush—that’s not like me. I’m always so…prepared.
But it was—it is—Tanner. He has this ability to get under my skin, ravish and unleash parts of me I barely let myself see.
Him and his magical, charming cock.
I must’ve been too wrapped up in our game to remember it’s real ramifications—other than the ones we planned.
And this is not fucking planned.