Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2) - Jana Aston Page 0,13
whisper sweet nothings to me. Or dirty propositions. Or best, something like "I'm so glad you found me."
He doesn't say any of those things, of course.
"What in the hell are you doing?" is what he says, the words soft, the inflection anything but. The warmth of his breath teases my earlobe and I shiver in response. My emotions are all over the place, my body confused by the conflicting feelings pinging around in my brain. Relief at finding him so I can get this conversation over with. Aggravation that I'm in this position to begin with. Chagrin at how far out of control this has spun.
And desire. It's still there, as strong as the first time I saw him. Some weird, chemical, magnetic response to him, even now. Desire is weird. Illogical, stupid even. Fuck Kyle. Fuck him and the dimple in his left cheek. Fuck his deep blue eyes and perfect jawline and head of non-tousled hair. A head of hair that I know is thick because I've had my hands in it. A dimple I've seen because it was flashed at me when he unsnapped my bra. Lips that kissed me like he cared.
I exhale, the guilty reminder that I claimed to be his fiancée in order to break into his grandfather's retirement party loud and clear in my head. I turn my head a fraction, my body pressed against his, and press onto my tiptoes so I can whisper in his ear as he did mine.
"I need to talk to you," I murmur, my lips so close to his ear it may look more like a caress than a whisper to anyone watching.
"Kissing on the lips not included in your pre-nup then?" Wyatt mutters, because he's most definitely watching.
"Shut up, Wyatt," Kyle snaps, not even bothering to look in his direction. Instead he straightens, his grip on my fingers tighter than it was a moment ago.
"I think we're sitting for dinner soon," Kerrigan interjects. I glance around to see the majority of the people crowding the bar just minutes ago are gone, having moved on to the main room set for dinner.
Oh, no way. No way I'm sitting through a dinner for this farce. In and out. The plan was in and out. Find Kyle, tell him we needed to talk, get out. Besides, there's no way Kyle is going to allow this to continue through an entire dinner, right? He's probably only gripping onto my hand so tightly because he's waiting on the police to arrive and arrest me for breaking and entering. Or disorderly conduct. Or insanity.
"You know what, I'm not feeling that well," I announce, trying to loosen my fingers from Kyle's grip. As I say it I realize it's true. I feel off. Wrung out. Queasy. Oh, God, really queasy.
"We'll catch up with you inside," Kyle tells Wyatt and Kerrigan, dismissing them as I yank my hand from his with more strength. I don't stop to partake in any polite goodbyes, I run. At least in my head it's a run. I'm wearing heels and a long dress so it might be more of a power walk or a weird prance. I ditch the glass of champagne on a high-top cocktail table and glance anxiously for an exit sign, a trash can, an ice bucket, something. Anything.
I make it behind the bar before I throw up, into a trash can while crouched behind the counter hidden by anyone who hasn't yet made their way into dinner. The trash can is filled with bits of lemon rinds and empty liquor bottles. Neither smelled offensive to me until right this moment. Now they conspire against me, making me heave again.
Kyle is behind me, a flash of what-the-fuck surprise on his face the last thing I saw before I bent to my knees and hurled. Around us bartenders are cleaning up, empty bottles echoing as they hit trash cans I'm not barfing into.
A few moments later the nausea passes. I've never experienced anything like it before and I'd very much like to never experience anything like it again. I've been sick a few times with this pregnancy, but sporadically. Most of the time when I've gotten nauseous I've been able to find a quiet place to sit still and ride it out and it's passed without me having to vomit the entire contents of my stomach.
Kyle's hand trails lazily up my spine, reminding me of his presence. When it's clear I'm done being sick his fingers