“I’ll be fine. Just need a minute,” I say, pushing the door open and heading for the closest stall. The rest of my bagel and coffee comes up, and I flush it away before sitting on the toilet seat with my head between my legs and the bitter bile and stomach acid in my throat.

I never get sick, and I don’t have a sensitive gut, and I can’t remember the last time I puked.

Yes, I can.

The stainless steel box with its hinged lid and plastic liner is to my right, opposite the industrial toilet paper dispenser that could wipe the bottoms of a small country before it runs out. I don’t have anything to put in it, no carefully wrapped tampon, no rolled and taped napkin, not even a mini pad.

Oh, holy shit.

I’m forty-three years old. I have four kids, thanks to Patrick and his Irish virility. I had twins eleven years ago. And I know enough about reproductive biology to realize that my chances of having multiples are higher now than they were then.

I also know I’ve got a one-in-two chance of having another girl. Will they snap a word counter on her wrist the second she pops out? Or will they wait a few days? In any case, it will happen quickly, and I won’t have any more bargaining chips.

So I do what any woman in my position would do: I throw up all over again.

Chapter Twenty-seven

TWENTY-SEVEN

Lin is waiting for me outside the restroom door, her face painted with concern.

“You okay, honey?” she says.

“Fine. Except half of my breakfast is in his office.”

She puts an arm around my waist and leads me back to our hobbit hole, cleans a smudge of mascara with a wet wipe from the bottomless pit of her purse, and gets right to the point. “You put a rather literal definition on lovesick, Jean. And don’t pretend you have no idea what I’m talking about. Still got a thing for our Italian colleague?”

I sink into the task chair behind my desk. “It’s that obvious?” Now I’m wondering whether the entire department, including Morgan, was onto my regular meetings with Lorenzo in his office. “Who else knows?”

Lin leans in toward me, elbows on the desk between us. “If you’re worried about Morgan, don’t be. He’s an idiot, he’s self-absorbed, and he’s a guy. He wouldn’t recognize afterglow if someone poured a bottle of it on his head. I doubt he noticed your wardrobe change, either.” Her smile fades into a line, and the line becomes a frown. “But be careful. You don’t want Carl Corbin’s adultery wagon coming for you.”

“No,” I say, and feel sick all over again.