“Tristan,” I say, my hand going to my mouth. “Pull over.”
Oh, this is going to suck so bad.
I will never be able to look at this man again.
Ever.
Hey, that’ll solve this stupid infatuation issue.
Tristan pulls over on the side of the road. I open the door, sticking the top half of my body out. I feel so nauseated.
I inhale deeply, waiting for the sickness to come, but it doesn’t, and instead Tristan is here, beside me, pushing my hair back. “Are you okay?”
What universe am I living in?
Did he seriously get out of the truck and come around to help me? No. This is a dream. I’m clearly so damn drunk I don’t even have a grip on reality.
It’s the only reasonable explanation for any of this.
Drunk or dreaming.
I will say, if I am dreaming, this is really unfair. Who the hell wants to dream about puking—almost puking—on the side of the road?
Not me.
I’d much prefer a sexy dream with orgasms.
“Good to know,” Tristan chuckles.
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. “I did not say that.”
“Sexy dreams and orgasms. You definitely said it.”
I can feel the heat of embarrassment climbing up my face. “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” I say to myself.
“This is awake,” he informs me.
Of course it is.
“I’m never drinking tequila again,” I moan, heaving myself into my seat, my head falling back against the headrest.
“Has the nausea passed?”
I nod, creaking my eye open just a touch and seeing his gorgeous face there. “For now.”
“You think I’m gorgeous?”
“No!” I deny quickly.
He smirks. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you said.”
I hate myself right now. “I didn’t.”
“Ya did.”
I roll my eyes. “You promised not to talk.”
“Ahh, but you talked to me first.”
