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“You thought what?” His voice lowered. It was obvious he’d caught up with my meaning.
“Can I close this door?” I asked, touching the handle. He stepped forward, his body flush with mine. My heart was pounding, and I was held steady only by his burning gaze. He put his palm flat on the door, and it closed with a loud click.
I’m that close to him again. My neck cranes to meet his eyes and take in the smirk touching his lips.
“Follow what I do,” I say and step back, feeling cold at a distance.
“Yes, ma’am.” He mocks my voice, and I whack his chest.
I start a simple yoga flow. He keeps up with the movement, but he has the flexibility of a steel rod. He groans in a downward dog, and I go to fix this tragedy.
“You need to straighten your back,” I say, putting my hands on his shoulders and running them to his hips. “Then angle your hips.”
Zeke bursts out laughing, and it’s a deep but joyful sound. “Tabby made me watch a rom-com that started like this, once.” He turns to peek at me under his arm, the muscle flexing as he holds the pose.
“I saw a porn once that started like this, too,” I joke, and Zeke collapses onto the ground, taking me with him. I land on my knees, and he groans. He rolls over, coughing.
“You can’t do that to me, Nova,” he says, swatting my leg.
“What?”
“You have a dirty mind,” he laughs, and I poke him in the ribs, getting a tickle spot because he spasms out of my reach.
“There’s nothing dirty about it.” I fight the urge to straddle his hips right this second as he lies on the ground. The things I want to do to him are sweaty but not dirty. They are glorious and satisfying.
I hate that sexual pleasure is considered dirty, especially for women.
His smile grows wider, and he sits up and scoots closer. “What’s next, then?” he says, with pure mischief in his eyes.
I wish I had a fraction of the confidence I had before, to tip forward and press my lips to his. Instead, my stomach churns violently, and I clamp my mouth shut.
I spring to my feet and crash through the bathroom door, barely making it to the toilet before folding over and retching. I cough and gag as the burning puke hits my nose, and I convulse again.
The door creaks open, and Zeke crouches down beside me. There’s nothing but concern touching every part of him.
“Can I help?” he says, and I shake my head.
“I’m fine. I don’t need anything.”
His hand hovers above my shoulder, and I flinch. I don’t like him seeing me like this. Messed up and sick and not put together. There’s no way at any point in my old life that I would have let someone see me like this. I can imagine Dru brushing my hair while I puke like she did when I was little and would get sick. The Forresters don’t show themselves in any state of disarray.
Zeke pulls his hand away and stands when I recoil. “Sorry. I’ll give you some privacy, then.”
He leaves, and I wipe sweat from my forehead, the nausea settling down. When I open the bathroom door, there’s a glass of water and a plate of crackers sitting on the floor. Zeke’s back on the couch watching hockey, his hoodie and hat on, up and shadowing his face.
When he hears me, he glances over. Whatever moment was about to happen between us, it’s long dead now.
“You said you didn’t need anything, but that’s what I do when I drink too much. Water and crackers.”
My cheeks heat and my tongue tastes like stomach acid. “Thanks,” I whisper and go to my room. Why do I suddenly feel like such a jerk?
God, he was trying to help. I need to apologize.
I snap my phone off the bedside table and notice four missed calls and a text, all from my dad. My heart thunders as I sink onto the bed.
Dad: Nova, call me immediately.
With shaking fingers, I dial my father’s number. I try to block out all the horrible scenarios that go from bad to worse. He hasn’t spoken to me in almost four months. Why this urgency to get in touch? The blackmailer rushes my thoughts—Dru’s accident.
