“Now juss wait a second…” I gulp and press my lips together, fighting a wave of nausea.
I want to pull away from Trent.
I want to tell both of these bossy boys to leave me alone and that the only person taking me home will be Kitty.
But I’m too dizzy and my stomach is a volcano full of lava.
A volcano that I realize—too late—is about to erupt.
Seconds later, I bend over and am spectacularly sick all over Trent’s shiny, black shoes.
Chapter Four
Faith
When I wake up the next morning, I remember four things from the end of the night before:
Mick Whitehouse holding back my hair as I vomited into a mostly clean, but still gross, toilet.
Mick Whitehouse brushing my teeth.
Mick Whitehouse assuring me that Trent’s shiny, black shoes needed to be thrown out anyway and that’s what Trent deserved for wearing nice shoes to a New Year’s Eve party with people ten years his junior.
Mick Whitehouse tucking me into a futon at Melody’s and smoothing my hair from my clammy forehead in a way that was surprisingly soothing, making me feel safer and more relaxed than my mother’s lullabies ever did.
When I open my eyes on the first day of the New Year to find Mick asleep in a recliner in the corner of the room, his sock feet sticking out beneath a fleece blanket, I don’t know quite how to feel about it.
On the one hand, he was an amazing friend to me last night, and I know the only reason I don’t currently feel like a hungover corpse wrenched from its grave is because he forced me to drink a glass of water and take two aspirin before I passed out.
On the other hand…
Well—there is no other hand.
Mick was amazing last night. End of story.
The realization makes me feel off-balance, and unsure how to respond when he opens his eyes and greets me with a sleepy smile.
“Mornin’,” he says, his voice rough. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good, actually.” I run a nervous hand through my hair as I push into a seated position against the pillows. “Thanks to you.”
“No thanks necessary,” he says, stretching his arms over his head with a groan that’s weirdly sexy. Ugh. Clearly even being hungover isn’t an antidote to the Mick Effect.
“We’ve all been there,” he adds.
“I haven’t,” I say, picking at the pieces of yarn sticking up from the quilt that covers my legs. “I usually know my limits. I don’t know what happened. I’ve never gotten drunk so fast like that. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. That punch was killer,” he says. “Four other people threw up. By the end of the night, we were calling it the Most Barf-tastic New Year’s Eve ever.”
“Oh God, let’s not talk about it.” I cover my face with both hands. “It’s too soon.”
He laughs. “I get it. But it was still a great party. Everyone had fun, and by tomorrow no one will remember who puked and who didn’t.”
“I’ll remember.” I drop my hands to my lap. “I feel so stupid. This is the first time I’ve seen Melody in years. I must have made a horrible impression and…” I sigh and stare at the wall above the door, finding it hard to meet Mick’s gaze. “And I could have done without you seeing me like that, too.”
“Kissing a douche canoe?” he asks, his voice a little cooler than before.
“I meant the puking and pathetic part,” I say, still avoiding eye contact.
“Well, if you were into the douche canoe, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t end up getting his number for you. After you vomited on his shoes and I convinced him I was an old friend who had your best interests at heart, he headed for the door pretty quick. But yeah…he actually seemed fine, I guess. If you like tall, tattooed, actually-nicer-than-I-thought kind of guys.”
My lips curve and I force myself to look back at Mick.
Am I crazy or does he sound jealous?
Just in case, I decide to put his mind at ease, “It’s fine there’s no number. I wasn’t into him.”
He grunts. “Then why did you kiss him? Or was he lying about that part?”
“He wasn’t lying,” I say, picking at the yarn again, not sure what to say next. The longer I look at Mick, the less I understand why I kissed Trevor or Trey or whatever his name was.
Sparks are leaping between us the way they always do, warming the room far more than the weak winter sunlight shining through the window. Even now—with my make-up no doubt smeared all over my face and my hair a wild tangle—he looks like he wants to touch me.
Kiss me…
And making out with Other Guy did absolutely nada to lesson my attraction to Mick. Meeting his gaze is still enough to make me fizzy inside.