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“Thanks for the TED talk, Riggs, but the immigration officer would hardly care what you have to say about modern-day society,” I replied tersely. “We need to look convincing, and I can’t be the one to buy myself a ring because my taste is too highbrow for someone like you to choose it. It must look authentic.”
“You’re so lovable. It’s beyond me why you haven’t won Miss Popularity at the office.”
“That was because of your girlfriend,” I said.
“Is she also the reason why Cocksucker ran for the hills—sorry, highest mountain on Planet Earth?”
“I can’t believe you went there.” I reared my head back, staring at him wildly.
“I can’t believehewent all the way to Kathmandu to avoid asking you to marry him.”
I was about to bite out something snarky back when nausea clawed at my throat. Must’ve been the seven-pound chocolate assortment I’d decided to propel down my gob.Bugger.I didn’t want to throw up somewhere public. And on a ludicrously attractive man, no less.
“So help a tasteless guy out. What kind of ring would you like?” Riggs ignored a woman who “accidentally” threw herself at him when the train stopped, giggling an apology.
“Just go with your natural instincts,” I mumbled. My mouth felt like it was full of wool. “BJ always said he wanted to get me a marquise diamond engagement ring.”
“You mean Cocksucker the mouth breather?”
My head snapped up. “How did you ... he’snota mouth breather!”
“I bet his breath smells like a wet dog.” He grinned down at me, obviously getting off on my anger.
“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.”
Though, just for the record, BJ’s breath was absolutely fine. Possibly because I always snuck packs of mints into his wallet, but still.
“Hmm, Poppins?”
“What?” Was I actually answering to this nickname now?
“You’re green.”
I pursed my lips, holding back from puking.
“You’re not about to vomit, are you?” His forehead creased.
The desire to shake my head was strong, but I knew any movement would inspire me to throw up. So, I didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Riggs flipped his bag open, angled it between us, and pulled out a Polaroid camera and a phone. “You’re not gonna make it to a public restroom. Throw up into this.”
My eyes flared. Was he mental?
He let loose a groan. “You can’t keep it in. The next stop is a few minutes away.”
I shook my head no. Huge mistake. My nausea intensified.
He pried the jaws of his bag open wider. “Just do it here before you throw up on someone’s shoes. I really don’t feel like getting into a fistfight because my fiancée can’t control herself around truffles.”
“Stop it. I had a day,” I muttered around the bile assembling in my mouth.
“Yeah.” Riggs began gathering my hair from my face expertly. He was surprisingly kind. Fatherly, even. Which was ironic, considering hedidn’t want kids. “Trust me, half of New York’s corporate media was there to witness it.”
“I’m not throwing up into your messenger bag,” I maintained, even as cold sweat broke through my skin and I became light headed. “It’s not ladylike.”
“Ladylike left the station when you tramped around the streets of Manhattan with a period stain the shape of West Virginia on your ass.”
I pinched his bicep, outraged. “That you’d ever even mention this to me in public—”
