What was that about? That zing of electricity that skated along her skin? She’d felt a lot when it came to J.P., and most of the emotions landed in the animosity category. But this was different, and it downright shocked her.
She sucked in a breath, gripped the ledge of the counter, and shook out her shoulders before pressing off the island. With quick strides, she strode through the farmhouse and joined him on the porch. J.P. had already poured two glasses of lemonade and settled them onto the small table between the rockers. He looked up and wrapped a napkin around a cookie before passing it to her. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” Nora said, but she wasn’t hungry. There was no room for food in her stomach. Not with the disoriented butterflies that currently swarmed about her insides. She felt her tummy dip when he took a long drink and ran his tongue over his bottom lip to catch a piece of pulp left behind.
“Should we get started?” he asked with a little cough to clear his throat.
“Yes!” Nora blurted all too loudly. “Let’s get started. Great idea.”
His lips pressed to the rim of the glass again, parting as he pulled in another swallow of lemonade. Something must have gone haywire in Nora’s brain because her eyes forgot how to blink and her mouth came unhinged, gaping shamelessly as she watched him.
Why was she watching him? Her gaze remained transfixed on J.P., and the longer she let her focus remain there, the higher her heart rate pitched.
Evidently, it wasn’t just her pulse that pitched. When she tried to speak, her voice left her sharp and squeaky. “Excuse me one moment.”
Like she was on fire, she dashed into the house, making a beeline for the kitchen. Her hands instinctively flew to the faucet and cranked the water on full blast. She caught herself before she all but dunked her entire face under the steady stream, and instead cupped two hands and lowered her cheeks to the water pooling there. She splashed another generous palmful over her singed face and drew in a breath so large her shoulders touched the tips of her earlobes.
“Pull yourself together, Nora Paisley.” She blew out another strong exhale and patted her face dry with the folded dish towel. “You have seen a man drink a glass of lemonade before. What on earth is wrong with you?”
“You okay?”
Nora whirled around.
J.P.’s presence seemed to fill the entire kitchen, and concern filled his whole face. “Nora?” He ventured a cautious step forward. “Are you alright?”
He took three more long strides that led him straight to Nora.
When he reached out and turned over his hand, pressing the flat side of it against her forehead, she nearly fell back on the tile to reclaim her space.
“What are you—?”
“You’re burning up.”
He brought his other hand to his own forehead for comparison. “You looked really hot outside—” the back of her tongue tingled and her mouth started to water, “—and that makes sense because you’ve definitely got a fever.”
She sagged against the counter. That explained the butterfly infestation. It wasn’t attraction. It wasn’t nervous tension. It was just good, old-fashioned nausea. She felt the prickle of bile rise up her throat again.
J.P. took her elbow between his fingers, and in a move more gentle than she thought him capable of, he swiveled her out of the kitchen and down the hall. “This way?” he asked, indicating the path to her bedroom.
She lifted her head in a nod.
She’d never been more grateful that she was a tidy person. Her bed was made, her laundry basket tucked neatly into the corner of the room, and her nightstand bare, save for a small lamp and a stack of three books that coordinated in color.
He guided her to sit on the edge of the bed while he took on the task of removing her decorative pillows. “Where do these go?” he asked, grasping the corners of two fluffy squares.
“Just toss them on the ground.”
He gave her a disbelieving look. “Nora, this room is immaculate. I highly doubt you just throw these on the floor.”
“They are called throw pillows, you know,” she attempted weakly, but winced when another strong wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.
He stacked the dozen pillows along the wall near her dresser, making a pyramid of the stuffed fabric rectangles. With all the concern in the world, he came back over to Nora and crouched down in front of her. “How are you feeling?” His hand was at her brow again. “Can I get you anything? Seven-Up? Ginger ale?”
“I’m fine,” she lied as she bit back another sharp rise of acid. She pinched her eyes closed. “I must’ve eaten something bad for lunch.”
“The flu’s going around,” J.P. said, like he had some sort of pulse on the medical ailments of Harmony Ridge. “Twenty-four-hour bug, I hear, but it’s a doozy.”
“Great. Just what I need.”
