I laugh and set my phone down. “I’ll be your resource. I haven’t been studying the topic of romantic love for long, but I’ve studied psychology and sociology throughout my time homeschooling and in college as part of my businessmajor.”
“I got the romance part down. In fact, I could help you with some tweaks on your compatibility form if you’d like.” Lucy walks back to Stone, who has been leaning against the counter and scrolling on his phone. When she rejoins him, he puts his phone away and kisses her on the cheek. That twinge of desire reignites, and I douse it once more with water.
“Great! Let’s meet up later in the week.” I finish making their coffee, give it to them, and they leave. For the rest of the shift, I contemplate if now is the time to quit this job. I started working here because it got me out of the house. Papa has always been great at giving me money to budget for myself every month, but it can be suffocating alone in that large home with only him and ghosts of my mother in every picture frame I pass.
“Bye, Kelsey.” I wave to my younger coworker before leaving. As I’m stepping through the door and planning to go grocery shopping, an ache spreads across my lower abdomen, rerouting my plans for the rest of the day the same way the disease reroutes mature eggs during ovulation. I have missed my last two periods, so this day was bound to happen.
Trying not to double over at the ever increasing pain, I make it to my car and speed through town to try and make it the twenty minutes home to Hartfield.
My skin rips from my upper lip, leaving a burning, red mustache.
Okay, it’s just a mark from the wax strip, but still.
It’s better than the hair that was previously darkening in the area. PCOS: a gift that keeps on giving. Hairy edition.
I called out of my morning shift today because after I got home yesterday, things only went downhill.
Flowed downhill.
Like an angry mudslide.
My stomach churns again, and I reposition myself from my vanity mirror in the bathroom to the actual toilet.
Papa has come up to check on me twice, but he only thinks I have a stomachache. Not to mention it’s left him breathless to walk the stairs both times he’s done it today. I told him to stay away because I don’t want him catching my sickness.
Which will never happen, but still. I don’t want him wearing himself out over something completely out of his control. I’ve managed this on my own—well, Halle helped me for a while there—since I was fifteen. I know what I’m doing now at twenty-three.
So anyways, to say I’m startled when a knock on my door sounds is an understatement.
“Emma Jane? Are you decent?”
And this day just got unbelievably worse.
"Not right now," I holler through my cracked-open bathroom door hoping he can hear me from outside of my bedroom. I scramble to finish my business, not bothering to checkmyself in the mirror before quickly washing my hands and tucking myself into bed while still wearing yesterday’s pajama set.
“Emma?” He one-named me, which means he’s about to burst in this room without my consent.
“Hold on, Squire.” I situate myself upright in bed with my legs tucked to my chest to try and relieve the pain. Crying to myself and folding into the fetal position isn’t an option at the moment, though it was my chosen pose for most of the morning. “Come in.”
Knightley doesn’t hesitate, and he’s armed with…
A tray of food?
I can’t contain my laugh at the image of Knightley standing in my doorway like he’s my personal servant. I don’t have one of those, but if I did, I’d want him to be a complete replica of the man standing across my room.
Knightley is objectively hot, and any woman in her right mind would want to gaze upon that perfect image all day. He’s wearing dark maroon plaid pants with a solid black button down tucked in. His black socks are barely visible and his rusty brown dress shoes are polished.
He came from his law firm.
“I brought soup and electrolytes. Henry said you had a stomach virus and wanted someone to check in on you.”
“He could have sent one of the housekeepers.”
Knightley shrugs, which causes the liquids on the tray to slosh over the edges of their containers. He straightens and, with careful steps, walks to my bedside. He smells like a breath of fresh air, anice change to the stagnant air of this room I haven’t left except for a couple of times to go down to the kitchen.
I adjust, attempting to straighten my legs so he can set the tray on top of them, but the angry wasps in my stomach sting in rebellion. I can’t hold in the moan that arises in my throat.
Knightley sets the wooden tray on the nightstand, knocking my chapstick, speaker, and current matchmaking book onto the floor. He sits down on the edge of the bed, worry shining in his pretty blue eyes. “Are you okay? Do I need to get something for you to throw up in?”
