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Fine hairs along his neck prickled. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on so I can help you.”
She closed her eyes, swallowed then took a ragged breath.
“I need to get out of here,” she mumbled, so low he barely made out what she said. “I don’t feel well.”
“Sir, is everything okay?” the hostess asked, the young girl’s wide eyes glued to where Brielle dropped her head to between her knees.
“My friend isn’t feeling well. Which unfortunately means we won’t be staying.” He pulled out his wallet, handed the girl a twenty. “Please give that to our waitress to cover my drink and her trouble.”
His gaze went back to Brielle. She still leaned forward, rocked slightly back and forth.
“Let’s go, honey.” He helped her sit up, but one glance at her ashen face was more than enough to prompt him to make a quick decision.
He scooped her into his arms, waited while the hostess opened the restaurant door, and then carried her to his car, with her protesting the entire time that she could walk.
“Can you stand long enough for me to open the door?”
Still trembling, she nodded against his chest. “Put me down. I’m so embarrassed.”
She felt good in his arms. What kind of cad was he anyway to notice how good she felt against him when she was ill? Still, he wanted nothing more than to keep holding her, to keep breathing in the scent that was uniquely hers. To keep feeling her warm body against his.
He’d missed her so much.
More than he’d admitted even to himself until that very moment.
“I said put me down,” she said, with more gusto than he would have thought possible based on how pale she’d looked inside the restaurant. “You should never have picked me up like that!”
He didn’t point out that she’d looked too weak to stand. Now didn’t seem the time to start an argument. Instead, he gently put her on her feet, keeping his hand on her, ready to steady her if she swayed, ready to sweep her back into his arms if she stumbled.
He unlocked his door, helped her into his passenger seat, then got into the driver’s side of the car. Rather than start the engine, he turned to her, watched her stare straight ahead, wishing he could know what was running through her head.
“You okay?” Crazy question when she obviously wasn’t, but he didn’t know what else to say to break the silence stretching between them.
“Fine. Couldn’t be better.” Sarcasm didn’t become her, but her color was beginning to look a little brighter, not so ghostly.
“What’s going on? You coming down with something?”
“I’m not ill, just embarrassed at the spectacle we just made.”
She attempted to make light of his question, but he’d have to be a fool not to realize her laugh was forced.
“Nothing contagious, at any rate,” she continued, still staring straight out the window.
He stared at her miserable profile, at how her shoulders sagged, at how her hand rested on her abdomen, and a possible explanation of her symptoms, of her rejection of him, hit so hard that he thought he might be ill, too.
Acid burned the back of his throat, searing him straight through.
“You’re pregnant?” He hated the words, hated asking, but he had to know. Had to know if he was too late. If he’d stayed in denial of his feelings for too long, let someone else move in and steal Brielle’s heart. Claim her body.
Her jaw fell. She turned to him, her eyes round and her expression aghast. “No,” she denied so forcefully he couldn’t doubt h
er. “I’m not pregnant. Why would you think that?”
“Because you were nauseated and looked like you were going to pass out.” Relief washed through Ross but didn’t fully ease his suspicions. “You’re holding your stomach.” He grimaced, wanting to hold his own nauseated stomach. “You’re sure you aren’t pregnant?”
Her hand fell to her side. She closed her eyes and laughed, though it sounded bitter-sweet. “I’m not pregnant.”
Something about her answer struck him as odd, as not quite the whole story. “How can you be positive?”
