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“No, thanks,” I tell him, gritting my teeth. Because the sick feeling is definitely growing. “I really just want to be alone right now.”
“I know what you’re thinking…he’s naturally charming and clearly intelligent and passionate,” he says. “But I do practice my speeches before I give them. Every speech is important in its own way. Your audience wants to hear what you have to say about what matters to them.”
My stomach tightens. “That’s really not helping.”
“Obviously, when it comes to making a speech at your sister’s wedding you want to do a good job?—”
“Oh God. I’m going to throw up.” I spin and lean over the railing.
I’m shocked to feel his hands in my hair. He grabs my hair in both hands, holding it back just as I retch over the side of my grandmother’s steps.
I’ve thrown up so much that I’m able to appreciate his lightning-fast reflexes and that what I said registered in time for him to react.
Not to mention how helpful it is having him hold my hair back.
I stay bent over, breathing for a few seconds. I’ve also done it enough to know when I’m finished.
I push myself upright and reach for my bag. He lets go of my hair as I rummage in the depths of the big purse. But he doesn’t move back.
I pull out the package of tissues and a bottle of water. I clean up, swish water in my mouth, spit it out—it’s not ladylike, but it’s very hard to spit water out over the edge of a porch gracefully…especially after throwing up over that same porch—check the front of my dress and give thanks that I missed everything but the grass at the base of my grandma’s steps.
Then I take a deep breath and look up at him as I unwrap a piece of gum. I start to chew as I wait for his response. Which I assume will be some mumbled excuse about why he needs to be back inside and away from me.
“Did you know that was going to happen?” he asks. He seems to already know the answer.
“Yes.”
“Then you probably shouldn’t have taken your hair down.”
I blink at him. I think about his words. And I realize…he’s right.
“Good point. I get a little impatient when it comes to being uncomfortable and that twist was killing me.” Then I frown as I realize what his comment means. “You saw me before this?”
“You took it down after you took two shots, ate a cupcake, and…” His gaze drops to the front of my dress, then returns to my face with a faint smile. “…you took off what I assume are adhesive bra pads.”
I stare at him. All of that happened. And honestly, only about twenty minutes ago. And in fairness, I was very into trying to get comfortable and all of that played into that, so I wasn’t really looking around the room. I’d already looked for him and not found him. I didn’t know he was here.
“And you really don’t like shoes,” he says, looking down at my feet.
Yes, I’m barefoot. Again. When we’d danced at Charlie’s wedding, I’d been barefoot too.
“Unless you’ve worn adhesive bra pads and had your hair up in a twist, you don’t get to judge,” I finally say.
“No judgment at all,” he says, a full smile finally forming.
“Well, I’m glad you have such good reflexes.”
He nods. “You’re welcome. You can pay me back with dance number four.”
My eyes widen. He wants to dance with me? After watching me throw up? “We only danced once before.”
“Twice. We paused for about a minute in between two songs, so that counts as two dances. Even though the first dance was actually two songs.”
“But dance number four will be for holding my hair just now?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s dance number three for?”
