Note to self: O Spa calendar series photography needs to be booked. Stat.

Henry stands abruptly, abandoning his tea. He gives me a savage look and says, “I’ll take you up on the offer to go home,” his butt-flossed ass the last we see of him as he storms out.

“What the hell’s wrong with him?”

“The moaner is one of his professors.”

Ryan lets out a low whistle. “No shit?” Like all the other employees at O, Ryan knows how aggressively Henry separates his personal and professional lives. “No wonder he’s upset. She recognized him?” Women love Ryan’s Southie accent, which becomes more pronounced when he talks about drama.

“It’s all fine now,” I say. Ryan has a tendency to hoard gossip, and I am not going to be his supplier.

One of the cleaning staff enters the room, dressed in the O signature kimono but with a zipper instead of a tie to hold it closed, and swiftly removes Henry’s cup of tea.

“Hey, Chloe, I think payroll screwed up last week. I was shorted about eighty bucks on my paycheck,” Ryan says.

My turn to groan. “Again?”

“Corporate never makes mistakes in my favor.”

I pat his forearm as I walk out of the lounge. “File a ticket in the new accounting system. CC me on it. I’ll make sure it’s caught up next week.” I don’t handle operations, but with O poised to expand into new franchises after my upcoming presentation with Anterdec, I troubleshoot every issue these days.

He flashes me a brilliant, grateful smile. If I didn’t have a strict “No Fraternizing” rule with the employees, I’d be so tempted.

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

“Oh, God!” the professor screams. Screams.

“I think Zeke’s the best,” I say out of the corner of my mouth, as Ryan bursts into laughter.

Just another day at work, and it’s not even half over.

Chapter 3

Chloe

I was born without abdominal muscles.

This has never been confirmed by any medical professional, but it’s the only possible reason why I have executed tens of thousands of curl-ups in my lifetime with no visible result.

None.

Jemma is lying on the mat next to mine, cradling a two-pound weight on her chest. She’s not even pretending to move. If we pulled the mats outdoors on the roof deck, people would think we were tanning.

Hmm, not a bad idea. At least we would be accomplishing something.

One of the perks of working at O Club is that we get to use Oxygen. Not the breathing apparatus. The fitness studio. Although there is a special room here where members can inhale concentrated oxygen in special scents.

We offer Summer in Provence, Colorado Evergreen, Caribbean Spice. For non-vegans, we have Ferrari Leather. I have suggested Warm Balls—more than once—but it never appears. Am I the only one who finds that scent delicious? And for some of us, it’s scarcer than Southern Oleander.

We’re in product development for a new scent: Jamie Fraser. The focus group marketing companies have been inundated with volunteers to test-smell that one.

Jemma turns on her side and does a few leg lifts. Like, three. In the middle of my work day, I can take an hour and join any class with an open spot. In fact, I’m encouraged to join a class every workday. It helps me stay in touch with the business and the clientele.

Maybe once I adopt, we can add Baby and Me yoga classes.

Scratch that. Definitely out of the scope of O’s branding.

But I can’t stop thinking about babies.

“It’s a good thing you decided to adopt instead of doing IVF, Chloe. I can’t really see you doing a strict daily routine of Kegel exercises. Unless lululemon introduces a maternity line with super cute yoga pants.” Jemma’s comment about adoption jars me out of my reverie.

“Oh, lots of benefits to adoption. Like, I don’t have to worry about my water breaking in public. And I’ll definitely take the baby home wearing my pre-motherhood jeans.” No one has openly asked, but I’m adopting for reasons that are no one else’s business anyway, so the lack of questions has been fabulous. It’s complicated, but the bottom line is, I have always wanted this baby.

Jemma sticks her tongue out at me, just a little. It’s cute. “You would anyway. Your size never changes. My closet has every size from 2 to 14. I’ve shopped in major department stores that don’t carry that many sizes.”

“My size never changes because I am a contentment eater.”

“A what?” Jemma laughs.

“A contentment eater. I’m not hungry when I’m deliriously happy, and I can’t even look at food when I’m sad or upset. Or stressed. When I’m perfectly content, and everything is smooth, then I will polish off a pizza. By myself. But since I’ve almost never been perfectly content… size four.” Okay, six. But who’s checking?

“And anyway,” I continue, “you have a husband who finds you dead sexy no matter what you’re wearing.” And he should. Jemma’s gorgeous.

“I do,” she agrees, smiling to herself. She runs her hand along her own curvy hip. “Maybe when your baby comes, contentment will be easier to find. How much longer now?”

“The birth mom is due in twelve weeks. After all this time, I can’t believe the baby is almost here. I’m so excited, Jem. And terrified. I keep wondering if this is how my mom felt when she adopted me.”

“How is Li?” Li is a sixteen-year-old homeless street kid I met a few months ago while doing philanthropic work for a charity attached to Anterdec, the parent company of the O Spa chain. Through a series of still bizarre events that I am amazed ever happened, she came to me, confessing her pregnancy, and asking me to adopt the baby.

Unreal.

Even my adoption lawyer said she’d never heard of such a thing.

Yet here we are, months later, on track. I go with Li to the downtown health clinic for her monthly checkups. Baby’s fine. Li’s getting social services, refusing help from me other than some shopping sprees, and determined as ever to have me adopt.

Unreal, all right.

If it weren’t happening to me, I wouldn’t believe it, either.

“Li’s fine. A trooper.”

“You realize she still might...this could be...”