Page 2 of Breathtaking

No.

He shakes his head like I’m daft.

“Retract the claws, little sister. I’m here to help, and apparently, the first step in helping is yanking you out of the denial you’ve planted yourperfectass in. I mean, that ass could actually be my first point. Itisgetting bigger.”

“Atticus—” He’s right. I want to claw his eyes out. But that’s before my next tear falls. “My ass is not getting bigger.” I kinda wish it would. I mean, who wouldn’t want to look like J.Lo in jeans? Mine is great, but hers is perfection.

“Umm... hello, mood swings. It’s like you’re making my argument for me. You’re moody as hell. Crying over everything. You look like shit, and you’ve put on weight for the first time ever in your skinny bitch life. And my God, woman. Your tits are huge.”

“Eww. You’re my brother, and we’re not those kind of royals, you dick.” I finally stand up and smack his chest.

“Listen, the blind guy who lives beneath you can see your tits have grown. There’s no missing them. They’re massive. That’s not normal, Lennon. Take the bag into the bathroom and pee on a goddamned stick, so we can figure out how to tell Dad and Grandfather you’re going to have to move the wedding up to this year.”

Pee. On. The. Stick.

Oh, bloody hell.

All the blood rushes from my head, and I grab Atticus for balance.

I can’t be pregnant.

No.No.No.

“Whoa there.” His strong hands hold me steady as I sway on shaky legs. “Come on, little sister.” Before I realize what we’re doing, he’s walked me to the bathroom and opened the door. “In you go.”

The air whooshes in my ears like I’m holding my breath under water while I stand—staring at the bag in my hands. “I can’t be pregnant,” I whisper more to myself than to him.

“Listen. I’m not sure what bullshit Monty is feeding you, but condoms aren’t 100 percent effective. Now take the test, and we’ll figure the rest out.” He pulls the bathroom door shut, and I drop the bag on the marble vanity and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

Suddenly, the one staring back at me isn’t one I’m familiar with.

Flushed cheeks and gaunt, tired eyes stare back.

I pull my sweater over my head and cup my boobs in my hands.

Holy shit. He’s right.

They’re bigger.

It’s like I’ve lost all the weight in my face, and it’s gone right to my tits.

I turn and want to sob again. The fucker is right. The weight is evenly distributed between my ass and my tits. Thank God we’re between shows. I’m not sure who’d be more pissed... the costume designers or my dance partner. As a principal dancer with the London Ballet, we get weighed weekly, and there’s no way they wouldn’t notice this.

What the hell?

I yank the box from the sack and manage to wave off the impending panic attack and the bile building in my stomach.

Am I really going to pee on a stick? As I open the pink and white box and dump out the tests, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I’m about to do.

This is so bad.

Unfathomably bad.

A minute later, when three tests, the instruction sheet, and a pair of ridiculous plastic gloves are all scattered across the counter, it becomes a little too real, and that panic attack is starting to look like a solid plan.

Plastic gloves... really?

I stare at the offending objects and decide I might as well get this over with. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just extra hormonal and need to lay off the ice cream...

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