Now. Now. We’re here. Finally.
I lean down. I’m so close, I can feel her breath catch.
“Shit,” she gasps.
My eyes fly open to find her gazing back at me with a horrified expression.
She sways and covers her mouth. Her free hand reaches between us to pull her towel tighter. And she bolts, racing into the bathroom.
I wince at the door slam.
I stand there trying to process everything that just happened. Then I walk over to the bathroom, approaching it with hesitation. “Em?” I ask with a soft knock. “Are you okay?
The toilet flushes. A minute later, a faucet turns on.
“Go away,” she cries. “Leave me to my mortification.”
“I’m not leaving. Let me in.”
“No.”
“What happened? Did I do something that upset you?” I hunch my shoulders, worrying that I misinterpreted her signal. That I got this horribly wrong.
“It’s not you. It’s me,” she says through the closed door. “I almost got sick. Again.”
I hear a thump on the other side of the door, as if she’s leaning against it.
So I lean against it as well, wanting to feel closer to her. “Um. Should I take that personally?”
She moans. “Concussion problems. Apparently, closing my eyes while standing upright triggers my vertigo, which triggers nausea.”
I wince and mentally kick myself. If there was any sign that I need to slow the fuck down and not rush this, here it is. I was selfish, taking what I wanted.
And it made her sick.
Literally, I think with dark humor.
Right now, what she needs most is a friend. A protector. She’s been there for me all these years. So I have to do better. Be stronger. Resist this pull she has over me.
At least until her strength is back and her vertigo leaves. When lines of fatigue don’t bracket her eyes by the end of the day, then maybe…
She opens the door slowly, interrupting my thoughts. She faces me, looking deeply chagrined. She’s a little green. And fucking gorgeous in that little towel.
I want to reach for her but hold myself back because I obviously lack self-control. “I’m sorry, baby,” I say. “Are you still feeling nauseous?”
“It’s passed. I’m actually hungry,” she says with a rueful laugh. “And I’m really, really embarrassed.”
I swear. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I shouldn’t have…” I let it go unsaid what I shouldn’t have done.Practically attack her like a teenage boy with no restraint when she’s sick.“You should try eating. Get dressed. I’ll be in the kitchen making us something.”
Ten minutes later, I’m flipping a large omelet.
I feel better now that I have a game plan. Here it is: no putting the moves on Emma until she can kiss without vomiting.
I’ve never been much of a planner. Or one for delayed gratification. But in my limited experience, I think it’s solid.
I smile when I execute the flip. It’s been way too many years since I practiced this. It’s not perfect, but I still got it.
“What are you doing?”
