Page 18 of A Really Bad Idea

“That comment you made before about your eggs shriveling up and dying.”

I place a hand on my forehead as I feel ten kinds of embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. I was just joking.”

“You brought it up the other day, too.”

I shake my head and lower my hand to rest it on my hip. “I think it’s my birthday coming up. You know, getting older sucks.”

A loose strand of hair falls out of my low ponytail and into my eye. He wraps a finger around it and pushes it behind my ear.

“You’ll tell me if something is worrying you, right?”

“Don’t I always?”

“No,” he answers quickly, and I curve my brows in question. “You internalize until it eats you up and you’ve made some crazy, rash decision.”

I adore him, except for his ability to know everything about me. Well, almost everything.

“Name one time,” I challenge him.

“You got married without even telling me you were engaged.”

“That’s pretty much the point of eloping.”

He looks at me from under those thick lashes and tilts his head. I know what he’s thinking. That was a tense time in our friendship. He was across the country—had been for years already—when, suddenly, I called to say I was a married woman. The distance had already put a strain on our friendship. Brock’s inability to understand how close Christian and I were only made it worse.

Christian gives a self-deprecating smile and then pauses meaningfully. “What’s on your mind?”

If you only knew …

“I’m fine. Stop fussing over me. I’m excited to meet Natasha. I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

“I’m not. We’re just—”

“Fooling around in supply closets. I get it,” I say with a cheeky grin.

He lowers his forehead a touch and speaks as if he’s about to tell me a secret, “I wouldn’t have to sneak away in closets if you gave in to my wit and charm.”

The way he says the words makes my stomach flutter and my body tingle in response. Any other girl would think he was serious. I, on the other hand, know better. He says things like that for my ego, which he thinks is shattered even though my self-confidence is pretty well intact.

“I wasn’t aware it was being offered,” I answer jokingly.

“Then, I’m not doing a good enough job.”

“Go to work, Dr. Gallagher,” I scold and turn him around toward his office where I’m sure he’s way behind schedule.

I walk down the hall toward exam room four and grab the file that’s sitting in the holder on the door. I sneak a glance back to see Christian watching me as I walk away, pretending I’m not walking to the beat of my own biological clock.

No matter what I do, the egg-freezing brochure seems to be stalking me.

I thought I’d trashed it before I left Brian and Beth’s house, but there it was, in my bag, as I took the train back to the city. Every time I go to get money or a MetroCard or my damn ChapStick, there it is. Like right now, I’m getting my keys out of my bag, and the first thing I see is the blue-and-white trifold peering up at me.

I close the door behind me with a thud and toss my bag on the sofa table where it falls over. Of course, the only thing to spill out of my bag is the damn brochure with the perky blonde on the front with her cheerful smile, looking at me saying, Read me! I take the brochure and toss it on the kitchen counter while I sort through my mail and throw out the junk. Then, I go to bed.

Of course, when I exit my bedroom in the morning, Fertile Myrtle is still on my counter with that egg timer in her open palm.

I head out to my spin class and stop at the store for groceries. Then, I give Salvatore his candy. When I get back, I sit on the stool of my kitchen counter, open my dinner, and take a sip of wine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bright blue color of the brochure with the words Stop Your Clock. I slide the brochure off the counter.

After dinner, I head to my room to take a shower when my foot glides over something. My toes fly up in the air, and my butt bangs on the hardwood floor. After rubbing my backside a few times to relieve the sting of landing on my tailbone, I see the brochure in the corner. I slipped on the damn thing. I grab it, march it down to the bathroom, and toss it in the trash.