“And here I was looking for a motto when you had that up your sleeve this whole time,” she says, the sarcasm thick, but still not eclipsing the concern when she pulls back from our hug. “Kimba, the dress—”

“It’s fine.” I force a smile. “I have a dozen dresses that should work.”

If I can fit any of them.

“You get outta here. I don’t want you to be late.”

“Okay.” She rushes to the office door and unlocks and opens it. Hal stands there, blocking our view of the lobby and Carla, who is probably on her fainting couch with all that broody testosterone in forced proximity.

“Love you,” Lennix offers as a final parting and closes the door behind her.

“Love you, too,” I mumble absently, staring down the length of my body with dismay. I’ve noticed a few lumps and rolls that stubbornly resisted four days a week of Orange Theory, but didn’t realize it had gotten this out of control. I’ve been busy strategizing how I’ll turn a swing state in an upcoming gubernatorial election. Lumps and rolls around my middle got back-burnered.

My cell rings and I grimace when Lotus pops up on FaceTime. I want to ignore it and call back audio only so she won’t see me.

I answer, being careful to keep the phone aimed above my shoulders.

“Hey, Lo.” I inject my voice with the enthusiasm the woman who has become a close friend would usually merit.

“Heyyyyyy.” Her pretty face, surrounded by a huge, curly afro, lights up. “My assistant just told me we got a delivery notification on the dress. How is it?”

“It’s…” I glance at the material pooled below my waist. “A little tight.”

“Tight?” Lotus’ sleek black brows snap into a frown. “It shouldn’t be. We finalized measurements not long ago.”

“It’s not you,” I rush to reassure her. “I’ve been gaining weight lately faster than I ever have in my life.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, but um…” I make sure the door is still closed. “I’ve also missed four periods.”

The reaction is instant and comes with a boom.

“What the hell, Kimba?” Lotus’ husky voice pops me on the head through the screen. “Did you take a pregnancy test?”

“Several.” I groan and tilt my head back to contemplate the ceiling. “All negative.”

“But could you be?”

I think back to my last hook-up. A unisex bathroom at the networking mixer off Fourteenth Street. It’s a blur of hand-blown chandeliers, bottomless mojitos, blond hair, hazel eyes, a medium-sized dick and a DIY orgasm, but I know we used protection. And I have IUD insurance.

“It shouldn’t be possible,” I say on a long exhale. “I took all the precautions, but nothing’s fail-proof, right?”

“Well, something must be up.”