Page 99 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

Scratch that. Not wondering. I am going to throw up. Right here, right now.

I turn to the sink just in time to get sick. And I don’t know what’s worse: the frustration that I can apparently no longer stomach my favorite condiment, or the mortification that Morgan is literally watching me for the second time in twelve hours lose my lunch. Or the lack thereof.

“Scarlett,” he says, and I can hear him padding towards me, much to my dismay. Immediately, I turn on the faucet and the garbage disposal and flush everything down before he reaches my side.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. But, like last time, all the insisting in the world isn’t working. Morgan is thoroughly convinced I am dying, or at the very least that I have the plague, and he insists on me laying back down.

“I don’t need to lay down, Morgan,” I grumble. “I probably just ate something that upset my stomach.”

“Before, you said it was just stress,” he says, literally ushering me to the bed again. If any of you have ever had morning sickness before, I am sure you can understand my frustration. It’s not like normal nausea. It comes and goes in literal waves. And right now, the wave is low, and I am craving that turkey sandwich. Though I think it might be wise to eighty-six the mayo this time.

“And stress causes stomach acid. And too much acid makes you nauseous. Which is why I need to eat something, not lay down. In fact, I am pretty sure laying down will only make it worse,” I argue with as much sass as I can muster. I want him to know just how annoyed I am right now.

“So sit, at least,” he says, but with a much nicer tone than mine, which almost makes me feel bad. Emphasis on almost.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll sit on the balcony, but I’m tired of being cooped up.”

“Fine,” he says, hot on my heels.

“You know you don’t have to follow me, right?” I tell him. “I’m not a seventy-year-old woman. I’m not a fall risk.”

“Listen, considering how unpredictable your stomach’s mood is right now, I’m not sure what kind of risk you are,” he says, and I’m not sure if he is trying to be funny but if he is, it’s not working. Even after I sit down, he just continues to hover.

“Morgan. I swear. I’m f–”

“Do you need anything?” he asks.

“Yeah. A sandwich. Hold the mayo,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that,” he says and I deadpan him.

“Okay. Crackers then? Can I have some crackers?”

“Now that I can do,” he says. “I think there’s ginger ale on the bar cart too.”

“Actually, that sounds perfect,” I sigh, and when he comes back with a sleeve of saltines and a glass with ginger ale and ice, I devour it. My stomach immediately settles and I am able to chill out a little, hangry mood and all.

Note to self? Never allow my stomach to be completely empty. I feel like I knew that back when Claire was pregnant. Pretty sure she read the entirety of that What To Expect book out loud to me when I was chauffeuring her to different baby boutiques. Claire pregnant is a whole thing by the way.

Suddenly, I feel the urge to text her. But immediately, I tell myself to wait. I also worry about how she’ll react. I was in happy tears when she told me she was pregnant the first time. But she also had the lifestyle for it. Husband. Three - bedroom, two-bath home. A car with airbags from nose to tail. I’m not even sure my car has one in the driver’s seat. It’s also a 1980s hunk of metal, so I don’t know how much it needs airbags.

“Alright, I made an appointment,” Morgan says, shoving his phone in his pocket. It isn’t until now that I realize he was even on his phone.

“For what?” I ask, popping another cracker into my mouth.

“For you,” he states, and my chewing slows.

“Again, for what?” I ask.

“You’re going to the doctor,” he states, and I stop chewing altogether.

“The doctor? Morgan, I don’t need–”

“Except I think you do,” he cuts me off.

“Okay. Let me rephrase that. I don’t want to go to the doctor,” I say stubbornly.

“Well, if I am being honest right now, I don’t really care what you want,” he says with just as much salt. I huff. He puffs. I glare. He stares.