Page 9 of The Backup Plan

My stomach does another acrobatic act, and I barely manage to lean over the trash can before dry-heaving again.

He moves before I can react, before I can be embarrassed for puking in front of a stranger. He stands behind me and gently gathers my hair back, holding it away from my face like it’s the most normal thing in the world to do for someone.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

Something inside me breaks open at those three words.

When the nausea finally eases, I sag back against the wall, and he moves to step away from me and give me space.

“Who . . . who are you?” I ask.

“You were in the bar last night. I think the guy beside you . . . something was wrong.”

The pink polo flashes through my mind again. His hand on my waist. The way I couldn’t make my mouth work.

My throat tightens. “You helped me.” The statement comes out like a question but more along the lines of being a why.

He nods, clearly uncomfortable. “I couldn’t just leave you there with him. Not when . . . you were in that state.”

My eyes sting. “Thank you.”

Another nod. “You asked me not to call the cops. Something about it ruining today or something, but you asked me not to, and there was no way I could just leave you there.”

He glances at his watch, then back at me. That’s the third time he’s done that. Checking the time. Waiting.

“I called them anyway.” His sigh is heavy, apologetic. This is the last thing I need on today of all days. He must notice my body tense because he holds his hands up. “All I told them was the name of the bar, and that I had just left but there was a guy there who was acting shady. I said I thought he might be trying to slip something into women’s drinks and that they should send someone over to check it out. I gave them a description of the prick and told them the bartender would know who I was referring to. They agreed and sent someone.”

“That’s good,” I part slur, part groan, and close my eyes as I rest my forehead on my hand that’s holding onto the trash can. At least no one else will get hurt.

“You okay now?” he asks. “Like, really okay?”

“My head feels like it’s been run over several times, and I think my stomach muscles have worked harder in the past ten minutes than they have in the past ten years.”

“At least you have a sense of humor still. But you’re good?”

“I think I’m okay.” I manage a weak smile and look back to him.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “You were out of it,” he says and fills in the gaps. “I got us a rideshare. Two rooms. Adjoining.” He motions to the door he came through. “I stayed on the other side the whole time. I—I couldn’t just leave you.”

A lump forms in my throat. “I remember trusting you.” Is that silly? Trusting a stranger? Yes. But I did. Do.

His mouth curves slightly. “That makes one of us, then.”

I almost laugh at the joke.

“Unsolicited medical advice?” he continues. “You’re probably going to have a wicked headache all day. Nausea. If Google is correct, sensitivity to light. You might want to just skip today altogether if you can.”

“I can’t.”

His brows lift. “Can’t?”

“First day,” I say. “Dream job. I can’t mess this up.”

Something flickers through his expression that I can’t quite discern. Admiration? Confusion?

“While I can say I understand, I sure as hell hope you’re good at faking it.”

“I’ll manage,” I say, already wondering how I can get an IV of saline and flush my system out without drawing any attention.