Her hand flies up and she turns away like she can hide it if she doesn’t let us see.
I catch her elbow and guide her to the kitchen sink with the same reflex I use on the ice when a puck kicks off my pad and I know where the rebound’s going before anyone else moves.
Cally is there in the same second, too fast, too urgent.“Ves?—”
“Don’t talk,” I snap, because the last thing she needs is sympathy layered on top of nausea.She’ll swallow it and smile and pretend it doesn’t matter until she falls apart in private.
Cally’s eyes cut to me, bright with offense.“Excuse me?”
I don’t look at him.I don’t have time.
Vesper grips the counter with both hands and bends.
Her breath jerks.Her shoulders shake.And then she vomits—hard enough that it turns my blood cold.I hate that she’s trying to be strong and her body is refusing to cooperate, and I can’t fix it with a plan.
I press my hand between her shoulders and lean in, close enough that she can steal my strength if she needs it.Close enough that my body can say what my mouth won’t.
I reach for her hair with my other hand and gather it at the nape of her neck, keeping it out of her face as if I’ve done it a hundred times.
Cally grabs a glass.A paper towel.A bottle of water as if he’s taking the role of “Helpful Boyfriend,” and maybe he is, because he always performs love like it’s an act of defiance.
“Okay, okay,” Vesper wheezes between breaths, already trying to spin it.“Super sexy.Really glad you both got front-row seats.”
“Don’t,” Cally says, voice wrecked.Possessive in a way he can’t hide.“Stop joking.”
“I’m not joking,” she mutters, rinsing her mouth.“This is my new personality now.Nausea and violence.”
I keep my hand on her back until her breathing evens out.Until she stops shaking.Until she stops pretending her knees aren’t close to giving out.
She wipes her mouth with the paper towel Cally offers, furious at her own body, furious at us for witnessing it.
“I’m fine,” she says again, like if she orders it, reality will listen.“You don’t have to coddle me.You should be worried about my father.”
Cally leans in.Too close.His hand hovers near her hip like he’s one second from pulling her against him.“I always worry about you.”
Vesper huffs a laugh like she’s trying to defuse a bomb with charm.“I’m literally covered in road-trip misery.Pick a better moment.”
She’s flushed from throwing up, lips bitten raw, eyes too bright to be anything but fighting it—and somehow, she still manages to tease.Still makes me want to kiss her breathless against the kitchen counter and remind her she doesn’t have to pretend everything is fine.
I reach for the washcloth.
So does Cally.
Our hands collide over the sink.Skin on skin—brief, electric contact, the brush of knuckles and heat where it shouldn’t be.Not here.Not like this.
Not with him.
His fingers pause.Curl.Like he thought about holding on.
Like he still wants to.
I don’t move—can’t.
Callaway fucking Winthrop smells like heat and woodsmoke and expensive cologne, and I hate that I know that.Hate more how fast my body clocks him.How I can feel every molecule of his attention like it’s crawling across my skin.
His gaze drags to mine—slow, assessing, dangerous.
And flirty.
