The Pregnancy Test (NY Girlfriends #1)(3)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Mandy managed a smile. Caroline, Allison, and Jamie had rallied around her, the true friends that they were, offering support and a shoulder to lean on. Allison and Jamie had staunchly assured her she could stay in their two-bedroom apartment after the baby was born, since Caroline, whom she shared one of the bedrooms with, was getting married in July and moving out.

And now Caroline was risking her reputation at NY Computing, where she was a marketing manager, by securing Mandy an appointment with HR, which had led to this interview with Demon Sharpton, her hopefully soon-to-be boss. The fact that he had been given that nickname by the executive assistants on his floor, based on the freaky little boy Damien from the classic horror movie The Omen, was unimportant. About as frightening as getting caught undei a kicking horse, but unimportant. This was her future, and she could do this.

"You’re right, you’re absolutely right. I will project confidence, and I won’t run out screaming or burst into tears unless a jackal pops out from under his desk. Then I’m out of there."

Caroline laughed as they stepped onto the elevator. "Remember, eighteenth floor. I’m getting off on twelve. HR has screwed up the amount they’re withdrawing on my taxes again." She shook her head. "I can’t wait to see how long it will take for them to change my name after the wedding."

"I’m so happy for you, Caroline. I can’t believe it’s only a few months until the wedding."

"Sixteen weeks. Give or take a day." Caroline grinned. "Brad and I are booking our honeymoon to Paris tomorrow."

"Paris in the summer will be lovely. I haven’t been there since I was sixteen. I fell wildly in love with a Parisian. He was eighteen and played in clubs… he made music with office supplies. I thought it was very deep."

She had always been attracted to the rather flighty types, the artists, the musicians, the modern day Einsteins. That’s why it had seemed like Ben was such a mature choice, such an improvement, a stable alternative to passion and poetry.

There certainly hadn’t been any passion when Ben had looked her straight in the eye, offered her a five thousand dollar cash compensation for their mutual mistake, and informed her not to call him ever again.

The elevator slid open on twelve, and Caroline and another man moved into the hall. "Don’t forget to change your shoes, and good luck!" Caroline gave her a smile and a wave before strolling off with a professional and confident walk.

Mandy glanced down at her thick sheepskin-lined boots peeking out from under her suit skirt. "Right-o. Change the shoes. I remembered that."

No, she hadn’t. She couldn’t remember her head from her hind end these days. She dug her heels out of her bag as the elevator stopped on fourteen, and the remaining three passengers got off. For one exciting second, she thought she was actually going to get privacy to hop around one-footed tugging her boot off, but then a man got on the elevator stopping the door from closing with his foot.

Damn.

He was good-looking.

With dark hair, expensively cut. Pricey, but conservative gray suit. Shiny shoes. The Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm and a cup of coffee in his hand.

The kind of man who worked with her father, who always made her feel a bit inadequate, dismissed. Like her father himself had.

This man wasn’t dismissing her – he wasn’t even acknowledging her existence. He glanced at the number panel and gave a firm push to the eighteenth floor, which was already lit.

As if her pushing it wasn’t good enough. Somehow his pushing it would get them there faster.

Pompous you-know-what.

Mandy dropped her bag to the floor and held on to the handrail. Lifting her leg, she tugged a boot off and let it tumble on top of the bag. Then she hooked her toes into her shoe and hopped a little as she tried to push the heel in. The motion made her stomach heave.

Of course, even wiggling her pinky finger made her stomach heave these days. Forget complicated maneuvers like crossing her eyes or touching her toes.

Or putting on heels in a moving elevator.

She lost her balance and hit the wall with her shoulder. "Damn."

The man glanced her way, but didn’t turn far enough to actually see her. His leg tapped impatiently. He watched the buttons climb floors, glanced at his watch, patted his pocket, probably making sure his mobile phone was still intact.

She had one pump partially on and one winter boot, and it looked as though it was going to stay that way unless she got some assistance. Setting her foot back down, she tried to ram her heel in. Nothing happened, so she let go of the handrail, bent over, and used two hands to wedge her heel in the shoe. All the blood in her upper body flooded into her face in a hot, dizzy rush.

"Oh, no." This was bad.

Shiny black shoes turned toward her.

She was afraid to move. If she did, it was highly likely her breakfast of tea and toast would come hurtling up onto her shoe, her bag, and the tired mauve carpet.

"Is something wrong?" He had a hard voice, clipped, reserved. There was reluctance in his question.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened.

"I think I’m going to be sick." Mandy wondered if she could hobble forward off the elevator, still bent over at the waist. She might have managed it if her bag wasn’t lying on the floor two feet away, and her footwear scattered left and right. Her wallet was in her bag, just out of reach.

"Well, get off the elevator then."

He said it as if this was obvious, which it would be if she could move.

Even with her hair falling in her eyes, Mandy could see the black shoes and pant legs were in front of the door, holding it open.

"I can’t. If I stand still, I think I’m okay. If I move, I think I’ll… well, be sick." It seemed inappropriate to say "puke my guts out" in front of this frosty businessman. Or in front of his feet anyway.

"You can’t just stand there all day," he said, with a touch of disbelief.

Well, no shit, Sherlock.

The door tried to close, and he pushed it back open.

"I suppose I can’t." Mandy raised herself a half inch. Her head swam, but her stomach only lurched. "I have an eight o’clock appointment – a job interview – and I’ve got this bad case of" – Morning sickness – "the flu."

Nothing but silence came from shiny-shoe man.

Oh, my God, this was a nightmare brought to life. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t move. She was nauseous, she was mortified. She was stuck on a bloody elevator with her head around her ankles and her bum in the air.