Make It Sweet

She was stunning. She had to be cold in the white sundress she had on; the air was brisk and damp in the wind. But she didn’t show it. Instead, she spread her arms wide, as though embracing the world, and the sunlight turned the white cotton of her skirt translucent, revealing the lines of her sweet little body in a silhouette.

I had no business noticing these things, especially not with her. Yet I couldn’t seem to help myself; Emma Maron was impossible to ignore. Not just because of her beauty but in the way that she soaked up joy, as though simply breathing was a gift. Maybe it was, but it didn’t feel like it at the moment.

With an inward curse, I looked toward the water and followed her lead, sucking down deep breaths and willing the migraine to subside. But it gave me a big “Fuck you” and surged with such force that I swallowed down a gag.

“This is glorious, isn’t it?” Emma said.

“Yep.”

“I spent months filming in Iceland, which has utterly gorgeous landscapes,” Emma babbled in the background of my hell-pain. “Some of them downright eerie, like a moonscape, but I’m still awed by the Pacific. Makes me want to drop to my knees and give thanks or something.”

I wanted to drop to my knees too. But not to any ocean god. Maybe the pain gods, if I thought for a moment they’d leave me alone.

I didn’t notice her approaching until she was at my side. Even then she was mostly a blur of color and warmly scented skin. But I heard her clearly.

“Listen, Lucian, I wanted to ask you . . .” She stopped, huffing out a half laugh like she was struggling to find the right words. “This is kind of embarrassing . . .”

I’m an expert at embarrassment these days, honey.

My vision cleared enough to find her smiling weakly and wringing her hands—God, please don’t let her recognize me now.

“It’s just that I’m feeling a tad carsick . . . I get that way after long flights and having to be in a car so soon.”

She had to be messing with me. She had to know I was fading fast, and this was her solution. Sharpening my gaze, I looked her over with a critical eye. She was a bit green around the gills, her throat working, as though she couldn’t properly swallow.

“You’re sick?” was my clever reply.

She went greener, a light sweat breaking out over her smooth skin. “It’s stupid . . .”

“It’s not stupid. It happens.”

The lines of her lovely face grew strained. “I thought pulling over might help, but . . .” She forced her gaze to mine. “Would you mind terribly if I drove for a while?”

Her thin fingers clenched together. God, we were a pair.

Given that I wasn’t fit to drive, and she was offering . . .

“Okay,” I managed to say. “Sure, if that’s what you need.”

Her pleased expression did funny things to the center of my chest. “Thank you so much.”

“Keys are in the ignition,” I told her with a weak-ass nod, then headed for the passenger seat.

“Great. Just one second.” She walked toward another parked pickup at the edge of the overlook. An old man sat in a battered lawn chair next to the flatbed, selling bottled water out of a cooler.

Emma bought a few, loaded them in her arms, and headed back to me. I might have imagined the pep in her step, because she met my gaze, and it was as if a wave of sickliness washed over her. But she braved it with a deep shaking breath and then handed me the icy bottles.

“I find this helps me too. Help yourself if you’re thirsty.”

Water would help. A lot. I eyed the frosty bottles in my lap and then the woman walking around the front of the truck. Had she done this for me? I couldn’t tell. Which was annoying. Unnerving.

Bemused, I opened a bottle for her and one for me, then tucked the rest of the bottles in the big storage compartment between the seats. Emma slid into the driver’s seat and promptly went about adjusting everything to her liking.

Was it weird that I found that sexy too? Probably. But I was too wiped out to care. Tipping my seat just enough to release a bit of pressure on my lower back, I grabbed my bottle and drank deeply. And then nearly wept in relief as that cold water washed down my throat.

“You know where to go?” I asked her, even though she obviously knew which direction we were headed, and I could tell her when to turn off.

Her answering tone said as much, but she simply said, “We’re headed for Montecito, right?”

“Right.”

Emma turned out onto the road with calm efficiency. As soon as we were underway, she opened the windows a little to let in the breeze, then turned on the air conditioner. With a quick glance my way, she explained, “Also helps with nausea, you know?”