Chapter 6 Mia
SIX
MIA
“You alright?”
I lift my head from the pancakes I’ve been pushing around my plate like they’ve offended me. Jensen stands on the other side of the breakfast bar, clutching a mug of coffee. He looks put together, alert. Unfairly so. I feel like shit.
“I’m just tired,” I grumble. “Last night was stressful and busy.”
The exhibition finished late, and we didn’t get to bed until the early hours—mostly because my husband fucked me senseless the moment we got home. He was still riled over Jacob Landry, and he made it his mission to leave his claim on me the moment we walked into the penthouse.
Not that I’m complaining. I love fucking my husband, and the way he’d peeled off my dress and thrust into me like he would die if he didn’t was insanely hot. After, we fell asleep tangled in each other, neither one of us moving until morning. And yet my body’s acting like I only had a nap.
I stifle my yawn, but Jensen notices anyway. If I’m being honest, I’d admit I’m so tired I could cry. My bones feel like they’re weighted, and my head is foggy. All I want to do is crawl back into bed and sleep for a week.
Jensen doesn’t like my explanation. It’s like he thinks he can control everything, including my body on a cellular level.
“You’re sure that’s all it is?” He brushes my hair back from my face and usually, I’d lean into his touch, but this morning, it annoys me. I push his hand back, grinding my teeth.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
He hesitates at my tone. Even I internally flinch at it and try to calm myself. Jensen’s not the enemy. He’s just worried.
“It’s just this seems more than tired, Mia,” he says carefully.
What the fuck? Does he think I don’t know my own body? Why’s he’s being such a pushy asshole? I’ve barely said two words since I sat down, and he’s already on my case.
Anger flares hot and raw inside me. I glare at him. “Since you seem to know everything,” I drawl, “please, do tell me what’s wrong with me then.”
The sarcasm dripping from my words has Jensen’s brows pulling together. Diane makes a soft gasp under her breath, but quickly covers it. Of course she does. Our housekeeper has been with us for years, so she knows I’m rarely moody or mean.
So now I feel like a bitch.
And that makes me want to cry because I’m not that person. And I know Jensen isn’t trying to hurt me or upset me. That makes it even worse. I swallow around the lump in my throat and the tears burning my eyes.
What the hell is wrong with me?
But Jensen doesn’t snap back. He never does. He just… studies me, like he can crack open my head and see what’s going on in there.
His hand skims over my shoulder, and I’m not sure if he’s grounding me or himself.
“Sweetheart, I don’t pretend to know everything,” he says carefully, like I’m a bomb in danger of exploding. “I can just tell when my wife isn’t feeling herself.”
Great. Now I really want to cry.
Why does he have to be so sweet?
Diane’s doing her best to pretend she’s invisible, but she’s wiped that part of the counter three times already and keeps casting sidelong glances at me like she’s not sure whether to scold me or hug me.
Calm down, Mia. Take a breath. Remember that your husband loves you and it’s not his fault you’re tired.
I let out a shaky breath and tear my fingers through my hair, finding my composure. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just tired and grouchy. Last night was a lot and I guess I’m just feeling the comedown. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
That doesn’t come close to describing how I’m feeling. It’s like I’m hungover, only I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol last night.
I grab his hand, squeezing it. I’m checking he still loves me, even though that’s irrational. My husband’s not going to fall out of love with me because I woke up in a mood this morning.
He doesn’t pull away, just strokes his thumb over my hand, which makes me feel even worse for going off at him.
“You’ve also barely eaten,” he says finally.
I haven’t. There’s a slow tide sloshing in my stomach, which has nuked my appetite. “I’ll grab something later when I’m actually awake and feeling more human,” I assure him.
He doesn’t like that answer. “Mia.” A hint of warning cracks through his voice.
My irritation flares again, but I force calm into myself. He’s just being Jensen. Let him do his thing.
“Honey, I’m not going to die because I skipped breakfast.” I’m joking, but he doesn’t laugh. He never does when it comes to me.
“You barely ate last night either.”
I didn’t. Everything smelled bad and my nerves were shot. I always get stressed hosting events. There’s so many moving parts. So many things to go wrong. And when I have one shot to impress investors, it’s a lot of responsibility to carry.
So I felt sick the entire night.
I thought it might have cleared this morning.
“How would you even know that?” I wave a hand. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” I blow out a breath. “I love you, and I’m sorry I snapped, but I’m fine—” What a lie “—I have to get ready for work. There’s so much to do after the event, and I can’t leave Juno to do it alone. It’s not fair.”
“I don’t want you to go to work when you’re like this.”
I roll my eyes. “Grouchy isn’t a reason to take a sick day, babe.” He’s not convinced, but I’m going in. It’s my gallery. My company. I want to be there. I place a hand on his chest. “I promise I’ll come home if I feel worse.”
“Fine,” he mutters. “But I’m going to hold you to that promise.”
Four hours later, I hate myself. Why the hell am I such a stubborn bitch? I could have stayed home, been pampered by Diane, drank peppermint tea in my pajamas, but instead, I forced myself to come into the gallery and now I’m convinced I’m dying.
Every time I move, it’s a battle not to puke.
I can’t stand up without getting a head rush and the smell of Juno’s latte is making me want to throw it across the room.
I’ve never felt so useless.
“You look like shit.” Juno leans her hip against the desk as she studies me with the same intensity she gives new artists.
“That’s just what every girl wants to hear,” I mutter, focused on the paperwork in front of me. I’ve read it three times and I don’t know what the fuck it says.
“You’re green, Mia, and not a good shade. It’s like bile green, not a calming fern or soothing teal.”
The paper blurs, the letters melting together. I blink until it clears. “Teal’s blue.”
“Actually, it’s the perfect match of both blue and green, but that doesn’t change the fact you are neither of those. And just so you know, I don’t do well with vomit.”
I lift my gaze to glare at her. I’m suddenly jealous of the fact she looks so perky and put together. Healthy. She’s pulled her hair into two braids either side of her head and she’s wearing Doc Martens with her skater style dress. She looks amazing. I look like a troll. A green, dizzy troll.
“I’m not going to puke,” I say with conviction. It’s a lie. If I breathe wrong, I’m going to redecorate the trash can.
I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. My body feels weird, like it’s not really mine. This is more than tiredness or stress, but if I say that to Juno that she’ll tell Theo and then Theo will tell my husband, and I’ll be ordered home like I’m twelve years old and breaking my curfew.
I’m too busy to go home.
I just need a new stomach—and ten hours in bed.
Juno grins like a deranged cat.
“What?” I ask.
She taps a finger against her chin, like she’s pondering the secrets of the universe. “I’m just wondering how much your husband’s head is going to implode when you tell him you’re pregnant.”
I stare at her. Then I blink. Then I frown. “He’ll be disappointed,” I say slowly, “because I’m not.”
She hums. “Right. But you gagged over coffee this morning. You love coffee, Mia.”
I do. I love every type of coffee. With creamer, without. I’d drink it right from the bean if I had to.
Just… not today.
I keep quiet because I don’t know what to say. I can’t be. It’s not possible. I mean… it’s possible. Jensen’s been trying to get me pregnant for months, but where I am in my cycle means I can’t be.
“Do you want me to get you a test?” Juno asks.
“No.” I return my gaze to the papers. “I had my period last month, and I’m currently ovulating. It’s not possible for me to be pregnant.”
She’s quiet for a moment, like she’s pondering the secrets of the universe, or my uterus. Then she says, “Was it normal?”
“Was what normal?”
“Your period.”
I put my pen down and look at her. Really look at her. Her brow is arched, her arms folded over her chest, as if she’s daring the universe to argue back.
“I bled. What else does it need to do to be normal?”
I don’t want to go there, to remember how it felt to see that small amount of blood and know another month was going to pass with no pregnancy.
Juno shifts her shoulders, her eyes locked on me like I’m puzzle she’s trying to solve. “Implantation bleeding is a thing, Mia. A lot of women mistake it for a light period, but it’s your little parasite embedding in your uterus.”
My mouth is suddenly dry. I have a light flow anyway, but my period had been different. It was lighter, earlier, and shorter than normal. I just figured it was stress or hormones or just my body being an asshole.
I’m not due for another two weeks, which would put me at… seven or eight weeks pregnant—if I was pregnant, which I’m not.
My mind is running laps. I can’t be… right? I don’t want to hope if it’s not possible, but maybe it was this implantation bleeding thing.
Maybe I am pregnant.
No. Two days of feeling crappy doesn’t mean shit.
My boobs are sore though.
And I’m exhausted. I feel like I’m dragging my body through wet cement.
Not to mention I get nauseous every time I look at food. Or coffee. Or stand too close to Theo. His cologne is strong.
“How do you even know this stuff?” I ask, going back to my paperwork. “I’ve never heard of implantation bleeding.”
“I own a uterus, Mia. I make it my business to know what the factory is doing to the workers.”