Page 11 of His Curvy Obsession

“You didn’t get drunk from alcohol alone last night,” he continues. “You mixed alcohol with your medicine.”

Shit. Of course.

An out of focus scene from last night comes back to me. Eric and I, upstairs by the elevator. He asked me which medication I had taken and I told him.

And obviously a man who has made medical technology his life’s work would know what that medication is for.

Eric knows about things beyond medicine too. Reciting the scientific names of every flower and tree in the garden outside of our office building. The names of foreign diplomats and leaders, the precise dates of every significant historical event to ever happen…

That’s Eric. A walking, talking encyclopedia. And a certified genius when it comes to medicine.

I glance down at the faded Johns Hopkins shirt I’m wearing, his alma mater. He could probably return to that university, walk into any classroom at random, and teach the subject matter with ease.

My boss is brilliant. He has his faults, one of them being interpersonal relationships. But what he lacks in social skill, hemakes up for in nearly every other domain. Smart. Ambitious. Successful. And now—thanks to his shirtless entrance this morning—I also know that the guy obviously works out.

A lot.

Add “amazing body” to this growing checklist of positive traits, and I guess my mother was right. Eric Stone is a catch. An unconventional catch, but a catch nonetheless.

And now he’s witnessed me throwing up and blacking out. Great. Just great.

“Rebecca. Why are you taking fertility medicine?” He repeats the question quietly.

“That’s a very personal question.”

“I think we’re past that, don’t you?” he asks, gesturing to me on the bed.

I cross my arms again over my chest, feeling so naked beneath the thin shirt.

“Are you trying to get pregnant?” he asks.

“Not…not currently,” I say.

Not currently. Because I’d have to have, you know, a guy in my life in order to get pregnant. And I don’t have one of those.

“But you’re preparing for it,” Eric says. “You’re preparing to get pregnant in the future.”

I sigh.

“I have…a medical condition,” I say. “I don’t want to get into it, okay? Please?”

My voice is nearly a whimper by the end and I know I won’t be able to say more without breaking down.

I’ve already humiliated myself enough. Why add to that by crying to my boss about my problems? About how my odds of motherhood are lower with every passing year. About how I’ve been looking into sperm banks, just in case I never find a man to settle down with…

Spinster.

“I want you to help me understand,” Eric says. “Because none of this makes any sense to me, Rebecca. No sense at all.”

My face flushes and I blink back tears. This whole situation is surreal. Eric’s bedroom, his t-shirt, him sitting across the bed from me and interrogating me about my private life…

“It doesn’t matter if it makes sense to you,” I reply softly. “It isn’t any of your business.”

“It becomes my business when you put yourself in danger,” Eric shoots back, his jaw tensing. “You’re preparing to get pregnant. And you’re giving your phone number out to guys like Larry Welch.”

“Who?”

“Exactly,” he says darkly. “You don’t even remember, do you? He followed you upstairs. He attacked you. If I hadn’t gone up to my office when I did…”

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