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“Is your last name Davis?”
Oh, God, he knows. He knows I’m Khloe Davis, sensationalized crime reporter from Starlight. He’s liable to open the deck door and toss me out mid-flight. But I don’t think that’s possible at our flying altitude. At least I hope not. I gulp, and the world spins around me.
“Yes, it is,” I manage to get out as bile punches into my throat. I’m not sure if it’s from his revelation or my upset stomach. Either way, this isn’t good. Not good at all. James wanted to keep my identity a secret, and this man hates reporters.
“Your father used to work for my granddad, right?”
“He did,” I say quickly and realize there is no way he could put it together since I use a pen name. A wave of relief hits me, but it’s short-lived. I take a few deep breaths as an invisible fist grips my tightening throat.
“You were in the car that day Granddad picked me up from swimming lessons.”
“That was you?”
“Yeah, and you were as pale then as you are now.”
“I...I had the chicken pox.”
Don’t get sick, Khloe. Don’t get sick.
“Right, I remember.” Alarm widens his eyes. “Wait, you don’t have them again, do you?”
“No, I think I have...” We hit an air bump, and before I know what’s happening, Will has me by the elbow and is rushing me to the bathroom. No. No. No. I am not going to throw up in front of the hottest guy on the planet.
Wrong.
Two seconds later I’m on my knees bent over the toilet heaving my guts out, and Will is standing directly behind me. He pulls my hair back, and in that instant, with my head buried in the porcelain bowl, I pray to God I get sucked out into the abyss. But no, I don’t have that kind of good luck.
“I’m...okay,” I say. “Can you please leave and shut the door?”
My hair tumbles gently over my back as he lets it go, and I’m grateful when he leaves me to die alone. I groan, but then he’s back. He’s saying something, but I can’t quite hear with my head in the toilet.
He drops to his knees behind me, his pelvis pressed up against my rear end as he leans over me and puts a cloth to my forehead. I moan against the damp coldness. “That feels soooo good,” I say. Will’s body goes rigid, and a soft hiss leaves his mouth.
Oh, wait, crap!
“I mean the cloth,” I hurry on, my voice muffled as I stick my head deeper into the bowl. “The cold cloth feels good.”
“You probably shouldn’t talk.”
No kidding, since I’m not thinking with any sort of clarity, and my words could be construed as sexual. It’s not like I was saying it felt good to have his pelvis pressed up against me.
Even though it does.
Good God, how desperate am I that I’m enjoying the feel of Will’s body—well, one part in particular—while I’m losing my breakfast in his toilet? Even if I had a chance with this guy, not that I want one, my current predicament would no doubt quash any interest on his part.
“I think you have the flu,” he says.
While I’d like to come back with some smart-ass comment that involves Einstein, the sarcastic retort dies on my tongue. We might have gotten off on the wrong foot, but he’s trying to take care of me as I die a slow and agonizing death. I vomit again, and Will reaches past me to flush the toilet. I heave a grateful sigh and wait to get sucked into space, but no. Like I said, I don’t have that kind of luck.
“Here,” he says, and puts a plastic cup to my mouth. I take a drink of water, rinse my mouth and spit. Not a dainty girlie spit either, if there is such a thing. No, it sounds more like a baseball player hacking up a sunflower seed.
And this, my friends, has become my life.
I moan and lift my head from the bowl.
“Feeling better?”
“A little.” I take another big drink and spill half the water over my shirt as the plane lurches. “Goddammit.” A sound crawls out of Will’s throat, and I glance at him over my shoulder. “Are you laughing?”
