Of course. Because apparently this situation wasn’t humiliating enough already.
“I’m fine,” she croaked. “Go away.”
The door opened anyway—because apparently “go away” translated to “please come watch this” in billionaire.
“I said I’m—” She looked up, intending to unleash every ounce of irritation she had left and stopped.
Carter was standing in the doorway in soft pajama pants, hair disheveled, eyes worried.
He was holding a mug.
“Is that… ginger tea?” she asked weakly.
“How did you know?” he said, coming in to set it on the counter.
“Because I practically live on it now,” she muttered.
He wetted a washcloth, kneeling beside her to press it gently against her forehead.
The gesture was so gentle, so unexpected, that Natalie felt tears prick her eyes, which was ridiculous. She was not going to cry over a washcloth.
“I’m a mess,” she muttered instead.
“You’re pregnant,” he countered. “There’s a difference.”
“Same result,” she said. “Messiness.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.
“Drink the tea,” he urged. “It helps.”
She sipped it carefully, the warmth spreading through her chest.
“You keep ginger tea on hand for your pregnant guests?” she asked.
“I keep ginger tea on hand because I’m apparently a masochist who drinks it when I have a hangover,” he said dryly. “But Mrs. Chen—the housekeeper, not the receptionist—swears by it for morning sickness.”
“How would your housekeeper know about morning sickness?”
“She’s had six kids,” he said. “She’s a walking encyclopedia of pregnancy wisdom. I called her at two in the morning asking for advice. She was thrilled. Thought I’d finally gotten a girlfriend.”
