Even PMS.

I turn in his arms, and look into his eyes. “What are you sorry for?”


Drew’s face goes blank, searching for the correct answer. Then he smirks. “Anything you want me to be sorry for.”

I laugh, but my words are sincere. “No. I’m sorry. You were right—I was just being a bitch. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m definitely pre-menstrual.”

he kisses my forehead. “It’s not your fault. I totally blame Eve.”

I kiss his lips softly. And then his neck. I trail a path across his chest, moving around his pecs, suddenly awake with the urge to please him. I look up at him. “You want me to make it up to you?”

his fingers trace what I’m sure are dark circles under my eyes.

“You’re exhausted. how about you make it up to me in the morning?”

I pull myself closer and rest my cheek against his skin. I close my eyes, ready to go back to sleep.

Until Drew’s voice breaks the silence.

“Unless . . . you know . . . you really want to make it up to me now. Because if you do, far be it from me to—”

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I laugh out loud, cutting off his words as I duck my head under the covers, slowly traveling downward to make it up to him.

In his most favorite way.

Chapter 3

Two days later, we’re having breakfast at the kitchen table. Drew likes to exercise in the evening after work, to decompress and release the stress of the day. I, however, am one of those highly annoying people who love to go for a five a.m. run. Breakfast is where we meet in the middle. After which, Drew goes to the office and I shower.

“You know what I love about Cookie Crisp cereal?” he’s staring at his spoon.

I’ve never seen one person ingest so much cereal. I swear, if I didn’t cook, it’s all he would eat.

I swallow a mouthful of yogurt—Dannon Light & Fit. The commercials don’t lie; it’s really delicious. Strawberry banana is the best.

“What’s that?”

“It’s shaped like cookies. So, not only is it awesome, but I feel like I’m getting revenge on my parents for making me eat frigging oatmeal the first half of my life.”

A poet and a philosopher, Drew is truly a Renaissance man.

I open my mouth to tease him, but I snap it shut as a wave of nausea strikes like a lightning bolt. I clear my throat and bring the back of my hand to my lips.

“Kate? You okay?”

As I try to answer, my stomach does a somersault that would make Nadia Com?neci jealous.

I’m going to throw up.

I hate throwing up.

It makes me feel claustrophobic. Suffocated.

To this day, when I have a stomach virus, I sit on the phone with my mommy while she talks me through the heaves.

I’m not going to make it to the bathroom, so I lunge for the kitchen sink. As I splatter my breakfast into it, Drew holds back the strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail.

I want to tell him to go away, but another round of retching commences. Some women have no problem going to the bathroom, passing gas, or throwing up in front of their boyfriends.

I’m not one of them.

Maybe it’s stupid, but if I were to die suddenly, I don’t want the last image Drew has of me to be one where I’m sitting on the toilet.

Or in this case, barfing in the sink.

his voice is kind. Soothing. “Okay . . . easy. You’re okay.”

When it seems like the worst is over, Drew hands me a wet paper towel. Then he glances toward the drain. “Well, that’s colorful.”

I croak, “Ugh—I knew I was getting the flu.”

“Seems like it.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have time be sick. I have the Robinson meeting today.” Anne Robinson is a client I’ve been courting for months. Old money—and I stress the word old. She’s like, ninety-five. If I don’t sign her today, it might literally be too late to sign her at all.

“You’re sick, baby. And I don’t think Mrs. Robinson will be impressed if you yak all over her antique brooch. Lucky for you, you have a genius boyfriend who performs exceedingly well in clutch situations. Give me the folder—I’ll run the meeting. Annie’s as good as yours.”

he scoops me up in his arms.

“Drew, no—”

he cuts me off. “Nope. No bitching. Don’t want to hear it. I’m putting you to bed.”

I smile weakly.

Drew tucks me in and leaves a glass of ginger ale on the nightstand.

I think he kisses my forehead, but I can’t be sure. Because I’m already drifting off to sleep.

Three hours later, I walk out of the elevator onto the 40th floor of our office building.

My stomach’s empty, but after a good nap, I woke up feeling better. Refreshed. Ready to take on the world and Anne Robinson.

I walk to the small conference room and peer in through the glass.

Can you see Drew? Sitting next to the little gray-haired lady in the wheelchair? While he’s speaking to the legal representation seated around the table, Mrs. Robinson’s hands disappear under it.

And a second later Drew flinches, like he’s been given an electric shock.

Old women have a thing for Drew.

It’s completely hilarious.

he gives Mrs. Robinson a harsh look. She just wiggles her eyebrows. Then he rolls his eyes before looking away, spotting me in the process.

Drew excuses himself and comes out into the hall, relief shining on his face like a beacon. “For the love of all that is holy—thank God you’re here.”

My lips slide into a smirk. “I don’t know; Mrs. Robinson seems to be enjoying your company.”

“Yeah—if she tries enjoying it any more, I’m going to staple her hands to the conference table.”

Then he looks me over, concerned. “Don’t think I’m not overfucking-joyed to see you, ’cause I am. But what are you doing here?

You’re supposed to be in bed.”

I shrug. “Must’ve been a three-hour bug. I feel fine now.”

Drew cups my cheek and palms my forehead, feeling for a fever. “You sure?”

“Yep. Right as rain.”

he nods, but his eyes are suspicious, not totally convinced. “All right. Oh—we’re supposed to have dinner at my parents’ tonight.

Think you’ll be up for it, or do you want me to cancel?”

Dinner at the Evans’ is always an interesting affair.

“I should be good to go.”

he hands me the Robinson folder. “Okay. Your investment strategies got them all quivery. They’re wet and spread-eagled, just waiting for you to nail them.”

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