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When I stopped gagging, I sunk back into my bones and felt sick for a whole other reason. Did I remember to shut the door? The floor creaked and I squeezed my eyes closed so tight I saw stars.
Oh God.
He just saw it. He just saw it all.
He rushed into the bathroom, throwing the water on. I felt so weak that I could barely turn my head or open my mouth to tell him I was alright. I felt his fingers rake through my hair, sweeping the curls back and pressing a wet washcloth against my temple.
You’re done, I commanded silently. You will not puke while Jacob Whitmore holds your hair back.
I fully expected my body to revolt. After all, it had been going rogue since that first wave of nausea hit last night. But somehow I kept it together, breathing in and out without feeling the vomit rise in my throat. Jacob was right there, stroking my back, his calm and zen washing over me.
Finally, I felt strong enough to stand to my feet. He took a few steps back and I closed the lid and flushed the toilet. I avoided his gaze in the mirror as I washed my hands. He offered me a towel and I pressed it to my lips. When I finally met his eyes, I saw white hot terror and an unspoken question.
“I’m not pregnant!” I blurted, squashing that assumption dead. We were mostly careful and I was on birth control. “I think Rudy’s is the culprit. Delicious going down, not so much coming back up.”
He visibly relaxed. “Food poisoning?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said with a sigh, then frowned. “You didn’t talk to Natasha? I told her I thought I had a stomach thing.”
Jacob’s jaw twitched. “She didn’t say anything when I called this morning.”
Of course she didn’t. I pushed away my frustration. I had bigger things to worry about--like my inability to keep fluids or solids down. And the fact that Jacob just had a front row seat to yuck.
I blushed every shade of red, trying to think of something to say. To do. “I’m sorry.”
He gently tilted my chin upward, his face awash with concern. “You’re apologizing for being sick?”
“But you just saw--”
“You don’t feel well. You’re human.” He leaned in and pressed his lips against my forehead. “It doesn’t make you any less attractive or make me love you any less.” He pulled back. “You don’t really think I’m that shallow, do you?”
I nibbled on my lip, shaking my head. “I think you’re amazing.”
The side of his mouth arched upward, creating a gorgeous half smile. “Amazing, huh?”
And just like that, I didn’t feel as sick and wanted to do so many other things. Most of them would require him stripping off those jeans, which really was a shame. But I was pretty sure that Jacob and I would both be scarred for life if we kissed and I...I shuddered at the very thought.
“You okay?” he regarded me slowly, his eyes soft with tenderness.
“I’m fine,” I nodded at the door behind me. “I think I’d feel better with a little distance between me and this room though.”
He let me file out first then closed the door solidly behind us. I balled up the sheets on the couch and tossed them on the beanbag in the corner. Jacob’s eyebrows arched in amusement before he walked over and sat down beside me.
“What?” I said, peering over at him. “Surprised that you’re actually sitting on a real-life futon?”
“This isn’t the first futon I’ve sat on or slept on,” he said with a smirk. He took in my shock and elaborated. “When I was sixteen, I ran away from home. I was sick of my parents, of all the expectations that came with the Whitmore last name so I crashed on a friend’s futon, a few blocks from the Village. I spent a month fancying myself an artist, living off Ramen and coffee until my mother came down and convinced me to return home.”
It was hard to picture Jacob as an artist type, curled up on a futon with a coffee mug. Heck, as soon as he said ‘ran away’ I assumed he went to Europe or somewhere warm and tropical.
“Now you look surprised,” he mused, stretching his arm out on the cushion behind me.
“I just assumed a super-rich kid’s idea of running away would look a lot different than sleeper sofas and oodles of noodles.”
He let out a grunt of acknowledgment and glanced away. I guess we were done talking about the past. That just left the present.
And our future.
“I want to talk about what you said yesterday,” I said softly.
