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“There’s a bucket on the floor in the passenger side and we’ll keep the windows rolled down.”
He holds out a hand for me to pull myself up with and I study it like a foreign object. It’s large and tan with the tendons extended from his unending shifts of manual labour. He watches my perusal and a shadow crosses over his features, hardening them in the dimming light.
I flatten my palms under my belly and heave myself up, groaning as the blood rushes erratically from my head. He pulls a pained face as he watches me and he lifts himself in time with my movements, hands hovering nearby in case I decide that I do need him to steady me.
Which I do. So badly. But I don’t want to finally indulge in this runaway-vacation post-break-up fling and then, part way through, cut it short because I’m about to vomit.
He walks beside me as I make my way to his vehicle, his eyes wary as he debates with himself about whether or not he should be holding me upright. I don’t even put a pair of shoes on. My fuzzy socks are sacrificed in exchange for the prospect of more water, rest, andsleeping in Mitch’s house. I tuck the seatbelt between my breasts and he watches me silently, chest rising and falling in heavy pumps as his hand grips the roof above my head. I slot in the lock and tuck my knees under my chin. Then I look back at the still-open bungalow door and spot something.
Mitch can tell.
“What is it?” he asks. His voice is huskier than before and when I glance up at him I can see that heated thoughts are flickering behind his irises.
I stare intently at a spot in the living area. “You’re forgetting someone,” I murmur.
He turns to glance at the bungalow. Then he shoots me an irate look. “You’re kidding.”
I make a sorrowful sigh.
One minute later Mitch has locked up the bungalow, I’ve got my teddy bear in my lap, and he’s driving through the forest like he’s got a pregnant woman in his passenger seat. Every branch that we crunch over has his eyes flying my way, checking that I’m not about to heave. When the air streaming through the window laps at my cheeks I shiver unconsciously and he leans over me to roll it higher up.
He smells so good that I think I audibly moan. He misreads the sound as one of anguish and he says to me in a deep gentle voice, “Give it fifteen minutes, Harper. Fifteen minutes and I’ll be taking care of you.”
My stomach makes another vicious contraction and I squeeze my thighs flush against it, aching everywhere. The only balm to my pain is the sight and the scent of him. I imagine that if he pulled over, got me in the back and pushed inside of me, he would have just found nature’s cure for food poisoning.
“Did you really drink champagne to try and alleviate the symptoms of food poisoning?” he asks suddenly, his brow furrowed and his voice a low scrape.
I narrow my eyes on him, wounded and defensive. It almost distracts me from the sloshing sensation in my brain. “Yes. Did you really give me four hundred dollars to pay for my shopping in the grocery store?”
Now it’s his turn to look uncomfortable. He scratches roughly at his stubble as his cheeks stain crimson. “You needed money for a cab, too,” he says quietly. Then with more bite he adds, “And I told you to fill up that basket. I didn’t want you going hungry, Harper.”
“And I toldyouthat I was going to run back to Pine Hills to get my purse. I’m not a charity case and – before you start making assumptions – I pay my own bills with the money thatImade. Okay, my mom put me through college, but I paid her back the second that I could. I’m not a helpless mess.”
This last line is followed by a sudden full-body shiver and then a series of painful heaves over Mitch’s bucket.
“And I didn’t spend it,” I add, sliding my eyes over to him with a defensive scowl. “I kept it on the counter in the kitchen. I just forgot about it when all the dizziness happened.”
“I bet the champagne helped,” he deadpans, as if I’m notthisclose to tossing the bucket on him.
“I’m from LA,” I say, angry enough to semi-shout despite the ringing happening in my ears. “We aren’t exactly renowned for sensible behaviour.”
You know what really isn’t normal to me? Being taken care of when something bad actually happens. It’s not as if anyone from my hometown came looking to check up on me when I fled my now-ex fiancé. My now-ex fiancé who I helped to get cast in the movie thatI wrote.
If I asked him, I wonder if Mitch would help me bury a body.
I look over to him and realise that the car has stopped. He’s pulled up onto a wide driveway with a cute porch to the left and a large garage to the right. Curiosity wins out over the need to stop throwing up so I tentatively turn in my seat so that I can look out the back and scope the neighbours’ houses. Their porches are all glowing with sconce lights, and jack-o-lanterns are lining their steps. I twist back to look at Mitch’s and see that he hasn’t decorated for Halloween.
“You don’t like the holidays?” I ask, watching his jaw muscles tighten and relax. He unfastens his seatbelt and silently gets out of the truck, rounding to my side and then holding the door open for me.
“I told you before – I haven’t been back here for a while. I’ve been living closer to the site.” Reiterating this confession makes him blush for some reason.
When he directs those penetrating eyes on me again I suddenly remember what I’m holding and I try to hide the bucket from him.
“Pass the bucket, Harper. I promise I won’t look.”
I frown deep and my throat constricts, my stomach preparing me for another onslaught.
“Yes you will,” I murmur, horrified. I’m touching base with delirium and the champagne in my bloodstream isn’t helping. Pin-pricks begin stabbing behind my eyes and my oesophagus tightens as if I’m about to cry.
