Page 42 of You're The One
The happiness fades from her face, and I step in closer. Her cheeks, flushed a moment ago, are drained of color.
“Are you okay?” I place my clean hand gently on her back, hoping it comes off as soothing.
She nods slowly. “Yeah, I just… don’t think wine and running mix well.”
“All right.” I steer her toward the bench near the fence. “Let’s sit for a minute. Deep breaths.”
“Don’t you dare say I told you so,” she mutters.
“I would never.” I raise my fingers in a Scout’s honor gesture.
“Can I lie down?” she asks, her voice quieter this time. “I hate feeling sick.”
“You want to head back? You can ride with me.” I glance over at Bodhi, who’s already nodding.
“Yeah, get her back, and we’ll wrap up here,” he confirms.
“Can you have the car pick us up here so she doesn’t have to walk?” I request, then turn back to Mia. “Or I can carry you?”
She’s already shaking her head before I’ve finished the sentence. “Not a chance. You’re not strong enough.”
“I’m offended.” I grin, but she doesn’t return it, clearly still feeling like shit.
When the car pulls up to the curb, I guide her with an arm around her waist. “Let’s go.”
FIFTEEN
The car rideto the mansion passes in a fever dream, my consciousness drifting in and out. Between each nap, the same thoughts flicker through my head: I shouldn’t have drunk so much, Dominic was right, or some variation of the two.
Feeling sick always triggers my anxiety. So, on top of thinking I might lose the contents of my stomach all over Dominic’s ridiculously soft jeans—that perfect, worn-in kind of denim, the one hundred percent cotton type that takes years to reach that hugs-your-body-like-a-second-skin feel—I’m also spiraling through increasingly dramatic scenarios. I probably have alcohol poisoning. They’ll need to pump my stomach. Will the driver make it to the hospital in time? Where is the hospital?
Wait, how do I even know how soft his jeans are?
Or how good his fingers feel running through my hair?
I blink my eyes open to find my hands cushioning my cheek against… muscular thighs.
“Are you going to be sick?” a deep, worried voice asks, large hands gently pressing to my forehead and sweeping my hair away from my face.
“No,” I say, and will it to be true. “Just sleepy.”
His fingers resume their motion, threading through my hair, scratching lightly at my scalp. Comforting. Steady.
“Where is everyone?” I look around the car and notice it’s not the usual van, but a rather luxurious SUV. There’s also a lack of cameramen.
“They’re wrapping up.”
“No more filming today?” I double-check.
“Nope, we’re in the clear.”
A wave of dizziness hits me, and I groan.
“Okay,” he says, guiding me to rest my head in his lap again. “Go back to sleep. We’re still twenty minutes out.”
“Why am I lying on?—”
“Shhh,” he cuts me off with a quiet sound, more soothing than I thought him capable of.
