Page 42 of Already Callin’ You Mine

11

PRESLEY

I had the world's worst dream last night.

No, it wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare. An absolute nightmare.

I dreamed that Jace Hayes kissed me. And then I threw up on him. Even thinking about it makes me want to throw up all over again.

Slowly, I open my eyes, groggy and feeling like I got hit by a bus. Seriously, I don't know what’s the matter with me, but this sucks.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Oh, fuck…

I blink, trying to clear the sleep from my eyes, letting everything come into focus. Only, what comes into focus is Jace Hayes. Making me start to wonder if that wasn't a nightmare, but my actual real life. Making it that much worse.

And now I’m really going to throw up.

“Hi,” I croak, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice.

My stomach cramps, the need to vomit taking over. This time, it’s not just mental either. It’s not a weird side effect to my embarrassment. I truly am going to⁠—

Wretch…

“Oh, that’s a good one…”

A large mixing bowl magically appears in front of me as I roll to the side, making an attempt at avoiding getting sick all over my duvet. I wrap my arms around it, pulling it against my chest as my stomach continues to revolt, tears starting to stream down my cheeks.

This fucking sucks.

“I got you.”

The bowl steadies against me, supported from the bottom, as a heavy hand lands on my back, rubbing in circles a couple of times before gathering my hair. The movement is gentle, comforting, and so unexpected. I don’t know how to react, other than be thankful for the cool air hitting the back of my neck and that I won’t have puke-covered hair.

Considering I’ve been awake for all of three minutes, that’s two rather big things to be thankful for.

I take another long moment hovered over the bowl, trying to catch my breath. This is absolutely going on my list of worst moments of my life. Probably ranking in the top five. Maybe even top three. Because this is without question worse than ripping the crotch of my pants doing a cartwheel in the seventh grade and having to walk around school for the rest of the day not only with said rip, but listening to the whispers about it. And that time I misjudged the distance to the bathroom and I peed myself sophomore year in college. Might even outrank when I asked Cody to hang up and call me so I could find my phone, that I was clearly talking on. Although, I do sort of blame pregnancy brain for that last one.

Of all the ways I never—ever—wanted Jace Hayes to see me, it’s like this.

The only question that remains is—is this worse than actually puking on him? Or simply tied with it?

Sitting up, I swipe at my tear-stained cheeks with the back of my hand. It’s a futile move, but I have to do something to make myself look less pathetic.

“Easy does it,” Jace coaches, brushing a loose strand of hair out of my face. A corner of his mouth tips upward, and he cups my face in his hand, thumb sweeping against my cheek, wiping away the remnants of my tears. “Guess I don’t need to bother asking how you’re feeling this afternoon.”

His soft brown eyes stare back at me, overwhelming me with what I see. That’s not pity reflecting back at me. Nor is it a calculated inventory of all the ways to use this against me later. Instead, it’s concern. Genuine, caring concern.

Swoon…

No, no swooning over Jace. That is not how this is supposed to work. We hate each other. Bitter rivals for life. That’s who we are.

And rivals do not hold each other’s hair back while they puke. Nor do they hang out until the next morn⁠—

Wait, did he say afternoon?

“A-af-afternoon?” I choke out. My throat is raw, some residual stomach acid still lingering right at the base.