Before I can dig deeper, an overwhelming pain shakes my body and I scramble to the toilet again.
Nat kneels next to me.
He pulls my hair back to keep it out of my way while I’m face-forward over the toilet.
He pats my back gently.
He coos ‘you’re okay, Riles’and ‘just let it out’.
When I’m done the second time, my belly is much calmer, but all of me is weak. I can barely lift my head up.
Nat withdraws and I reach out to him, instinctually wanting him close. Then I realize that I don’t have a right to be clingy and I let my hand drop.
My eyes fall shut and I focus on breathing in and out. Nat will need to leave eventually and then I’ll have to take care of myself. I need to regain my strength quickly.
With my eyes closed, I’m tuned in to every sound that Nat makes.
His footsteps pounding on the tiles.
Water splashing into the sink.
The squelch of a cloth being squeezed.
A moment later, I feel Nat’s presence again and then a wet rag touches my mouth. I struggle to pry my eyelids apart and fall into a pair of worried green eyes.
“Who told you to drink so much?” Nat scolds. His words are sharp, but his voice has no bite to it. Keeping his touch light, he moves the rag to the other corner of my mouth. “Why drink if you can’t handle it?”
I want to argue that Icanhandle it.
But in this current state, we’d both know that’s a lie.
Nat returns to the sink, washes out the rag and comes back. This time, he picks up my hands and wipes them. Every so often, his fingers scrape against my inner palm and send electricity skittering up to my heart.
“What am I going to do with you, Riley Carter?” he mumbles.
Kiss me.
It’s a ridiculous thought, but it makes my pulse roar in my ears. What would Nat do if I bent over right now and just… popped a kiss on his lips?
In the bathroom next to the toilet you just threw up in?
It’s a good point.
But I still resent the intrusion.
Honestly, where was this snooty voice of reason when I was overdoing it at The Tuna? Why is he jumping out with all the common-sense advice now?
Nat gathers me up by my shoulders and helps me stand. “Are you okay? Is the room spinning?”
“I’m okay,” I croak.
He leads me, step-by-step to my bedroom, and I amhorrifiedwhen I see the state of the place. I wasn’t expecting company when I rushed out this morning.
My clothes are piled up in the corner, right next to my laundry basket. Automechanic training manuals and equipment workbooks are scattered all over the desk in a haphazard heap.The drawers that house my clothing are open, the tank tops and pants clearly ruffled through and unfolded.
I stifle a gasp of horror when I see my bra, cup facing outward, winking at Nat from the top-left drawer.
Please tell me this isn’t happening.
