Page 10 of Deceit & Destruction

I told him I didn’t need a ride, that I had driven myself, but he insisted on walking me out anyway.

I break our stare.

“Of course it’s not,” I reply. “For it to be personal, you would have to know me and genuinely dislike me.”

“Right,” he returns and continue to walk in silence until I spot my car.

“That’s me.”

I glance down at the sleeve of crackers, and I hold them out for him to take.

“Thanks, but I think I’m good now.” I lift my chin and meet his gaze. “I’m sorry for throwing up in your wastebasket.”

The poor guy looked absolutely horrified by that. If he didn’t rush me out of the apartment I would’ve cleaned it for him.

His eyes dart to the crackers before coming back to mine.

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive? You were pretty sick back there.”

It’s the first time he doesn’t appear to be genuinely disgusted by me and it throws me for a moment. I’m about to tell him I’m fine, that it’s just a bug—a lie I’ve mastered—but the universe hates me, and another bout of nausea rolls over me. I don’t know why anyone calls this crap morning sickness. It hits all hours of the day and while most books I’ve read say it eases up after the first trimester, it hasn’t for me. I’m entering my fifth month and I feel worse now than I did when I was twelve weeks.

Ripping open the sleeve of crackers, I shove one into my mouth. What I really need is tall glass of ginger ale and a nap.

“Shit,” Mike hisses. “You’re turning green again.”

“I’m fine,” I mumble through a mouthful of crackers.

Classy, I know.

I’m not fine, though, and in about thirty seconds Mike is going to realize I’m lying. Rushing toward a bush, I lurch forward and vomit for what has got to be the sixth time since I knocked on Webber’s door.

As first impressions go, this has got to be the world’s worst.

When there’s nothing left to throw up, I straighten up. With my back facing Mike, I rest my hand over my stomach, silently willing my little bean to take it easy on me. I also promise not to eat another cracker so long as he or she doesn’t make me throw up again.

I hear Mike advance toward me and pull at my oversized sweatshirt before lowering my hand back to my side. Baggy clothes do a fantastic job of hiding my bump, but that’ll only work for so long. Bean is growing by leaps and bounds these days, and I don’t have the cash flow to keep buying clothes that are three times the size. Soon, everyone will know my secret, including Blackthorne and I don’t know what happens then.

“Give me your keys,” Mike growls.

I spin around to face him, but before I can object, he fixes me a glare and roughly drags his fingers through his hair

“Listen, Ginger, you’re in no position to drive and I’m pretty strapped for time, so save us both the aggravation of an argument and fork over your keys.” He holds out his hand and arches an eyebrow.

He’s not the friendliest of people, but most football players aren’t. They’re cocky and arrogant, and if you’re not popular or off the charts pretty, you’re not on their radar. I’m neither of those things.

“Cassie.”

I blink. I’m taken back by his use of my name and because my hormones are out of whack, I decide I like the sound—so much so that I freeze.

God, could I be any more awkward?

Clearly annoyed, an exasperated breath rips past his lips and he hitches his duffel bag onto his shoulders. He’s quite attached to that thing. We were already at the stairs when he told me to stay put and went back for the bag. It was weird since it was already established that he was just walking me to my car. He’d be gone minutes. What could he possibly need in there?

I point to the bag.

“What’s with the bag?”

He clenches his teeth, then leans forward and plucks the keys from my hand.

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