“Sunny!”
She looks up at me, and I can tell instantly that she doesn’t feel good. She’s pale, her eyes rimmed red like she’s been crying, and her lips are chapped, likely from lack of fluids.
She was fine this morning when I arrived at the cidery. I wonder what happened between now and then.
I jog the rest of the way over to her, my hip hating me for doing so, but I ignore it.
She holds her hand out when I get close. “Stay away. I’ve been puking, and I’m sure I smell awful.”
I ignore that, too, pressing closer. I tug her close, and she melts against me instantly, her arms going around me limply.
“No offense, but you look like shit.”
She laughs lightly. “You keep being so sweet to me, and I might think you like me.”
I do like you.
The words rocket into me, and I’m stunned by how true they are. Not just for obvious reasons, like the sex, either. No, it’s just her, and that fucking terrifies me.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. I was tired after my shift yesterday and didn’t feel like cooking just for myself, since my dad was busy at a function for the election. So I grabbed a salad from the grocery store. It looked fine, but apparently it wasn’t. My stomach has been off all day, and I finally threw up a little bit ago.” She huffs out a breath, like she’s tired just from talking. “I thought it was just going to be a one-and-done deal, but once I started, it wouldn’t stop.” Another deep breath, almost like she’s trying not to puke right now. “I am never eating salad again.”
I repress my urge to laugh, because even though this isn’t funny, there is something so cute about seeing her so sullen over lettuce.
“Come on,” I tell her, dragging her away from her car.
“What? Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you home.”
“What?” She tries to dig her heels in, but it’s pointless. “No, Ezra. You couldn’t. It’s broad daylight. People will see us.”
“I don’t care. You’re sick, Summer. You look like you’re about to pass out at any moment. You’re in no condition to drive. I’m taking you.”
“But ...” Except that’s all she says, allowing me to continue steering her toward my car.
I unlock the BMW M6 Competition and help her into the passenger seat. She winces the whole way, and I hate that she’s feeling like this. I’d give anything to trade places.
For a split second, I worry about her getting sick on the ride, but then I realize I don’t care. It’s a car. I can clean it up.
I reach over her, pulling the seat belt across her chest. She must really not be feeling good, considering she doesn’t protest.
Once she’s strapped in, I hurry my way to the driver’s side and slide behind the wheel.
“Do we need to stop for anything on the way?” I ask her as she curls into herself, facing the door.
“Maybe some soup? Gatorade?”
“I can handle that.” I start the car, and she grimaces at the rumble from the engine. Even though it’s summer, I turned the heat up because she’s shivering. “I promise to drive the speed limit.”
“Thank you, Ezra,” she says softly.
“Anytime, Sunny.”
And I mean it more than she knows.
Traffic is surprisingly rough. With Port Harbor being such a small town, it’s not usually something we have to worry about, but some days I swear everybody is out on the road.
