"I'm glad you came," I admitted.
Gently he smoothed my hair from my temples. Another of those wonderful shivers raced through me. "I do believe that's the first time you've ever admitted to any type of affection for me."
"Yeah, well. Don't get used to it."
His fingers trailed down my shoulder to the curve of my waist, stopping at the hem of my ultra-short dress. "It drives me crazy when you wear green," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "The only thing I like better is when you're wearing nothing at all."
I stared into his eyes, those gloriously blue, heartwarming eyes. This man was tearing me apart inside, but I couldn't walk away from him. "What am I going to do with you, Royce?" I whispered.
His arms tightened around me and smoothed a path up my bottom and to the small of my back. "Love me. Trust me."
I shook my head almost violently. My stomach cramped with enough force to make me gasp. I stilled. My blood went cold even as my skin heated several degrees. "I think I'm going to be sick," I said. I flattened a hand against my stomach, trying to tamp down another cramp.
He frowned. "What I said wasn't that bad."
"No, really. I think I'm going to be sick," I said, then hunched over and threw up boneless wings all over his expensive Italian loafers.
Loud, nefarious ringing penetrated the darkness blanketing my mind-and it wasn't from my hidden BlueJay. The screeching thundered in my ears with deafening intensity. I hadn't drunk any alcohol, but I felt hungover.
The ringing continued.
Damn phone. I blindly reached out, meaning to pound it into a thousand tiny pieces, but I found nothing but air. By the time I sat up, my lips bared in a scowl, the ringing had ceased, going silent. With a sigh, I laid my heavy head back on the pillow and burrowed deeper in the covers.
God, my brain ached. My stomach still felt queasy. "Death by chicken wing," I muttered. I had already spent most of the night hunched over the toilet, throwing up. I wanted to die, but sometime during the night, I'd decided to be brave and live. I thought now that I had made the wrong choice.
Another bout of ringing erupted.
Jumping up from the bed-anything to make the noise stop- I tripped over the tangled sheets. It had to be another reporter from the Tattler. They'd called me all night long, in between bouts of vomiting, wanting to know about my (alleged) relationship with Royce, when my triplets were due and if Royce and I had set a date for our wedding. I hadn't spoken with them myself, but had heard their questions over my answering machine.
I'd had enough. I planned to tell this reporter exactly what he could do with himself. Rot in hell! Sprawled out across the floor, I made a grab for the receiver. "Hello." My voice was croaky, as if I'd spent the night sucking on Brillo pads.
"Naomi, darling? That you?"
Mom. If I hadn't felt like killing myself already, I would have then. "Yeah. It's me," I said. "Barely."
"Darling, you sound horribly sick."
"I am."
"Oh, dear. I'd thought you were lying when you said you were sick at my house, but you were telling the truth, and now you're even worse, and that makes me the worst mom in the world for-"
"I was lying," I interjected. "I'm just a little out of sorts right now."
Pause. "Good, then. I won't keep you long. I just have to get a few things off my chest before I burst. Now that you know about Rachel, Jonathan really wants you to meet her. I'll let you know when and where. And-and I've decided we were wrong, that Jonathan just isn't the type of man to cheat on me."
"Mom, that's-"
"No, no. He's an honest man. And so sweet. He brought me flowers yesterday and we spent a romantic evening together, dinner, wine, the works."
Most likely the romantic night had been born of Jonathan's guilt. Why couldn't my mom see that?
My stomach chose that moment to cramp again, and I moaned. "Do you see what that kind of talk does to me, mom? It makes me want to throw up."
"Want me to come over and take care of you? I'll bring soup. I think I have a can of chicken noodle here. If not, I'm sure I have tomato."
"Oh, God." I pressed my lips together to keep from barfing right then and there. "Are you trying to kill me? No soup. No mention of soup ever again. I'll be fine. People don't die from food poisoning."
"Yes, they do," she said matter-of-factly. "All the time."
Great. "Thanks, Mom. I really needed to hear that."
"Are you sure you don't want me to come over?"
"Positive."
"I'll let you get some rest."
"Wait." I fought through the pain long enough to say, "I know you want to think the best of Jonathan. So do I. But I also wanted to think the best of Richard."
"This isn't the same thing. They aren't the same man."
"That's where you're wrong. They are the same man. Every man ever born is the same man." Except Royce. Maybe. "Don't you remember Daddy? I was only a child, but I remember his late nights, his 'female business associates.'" While my mom pretended not to notice. "And you saw how I made excuses for my husband. You saw how I suffered, so why are you putting yourself through the same thing?"
"We have no proof," she said defensively.
"I saw him, okay. I saw him with a woman."
Silence. A horrified gasp. A sob. "Who? What did they do? What did she look like?"
I scrubbed a hand down my face. This was not a good time for this conversation, but there was no help for it. "It was Nora Hallsbrook, his secretary."
"What did they do?" she repeated brokenly.
"Talked, smelled oils."
"That's…that's all? Nothing sexual?"
"No. Not this time, but-"
My mom cut me off with a shaky, relieved breath. "Well, then, there you have it. He's not sleeping with her. They were working."
"At her home? With massage oil?"
"They are not sleeping together," she said, a desperate edge to her voice.
"Mom-"
"I've got to go, dear."
Click.
I stared down at the phone and shook my head. Why did women in love insist on making excuses for their men? Even women who'd been burned in the past, like my mom had?
"Your mom reminds me of mine."
I spun around, which was a mistake. My stomach cramped yet again, doubling me over. I clutched my side, croaking out, "What are you doing here?"
"I couldn't leave you, not like this," Royce said. "I tried to turn your ringer off, but your phone resisted me every step of the way. Stubborn, like its owner. And I didn't want to answer and give the Tattler something more to talk about. Come on, I'll help you back into bed."
He closed the distance between us and curled his arm around me. He'd actually stayed to take care of me. Only men in movies did that. Richard would have taken off, claiming he couldn't afford to catch whatever I had. In that moment, I slipped a little further under Royce's spell.
Unemotional fling. Apparently I'd still never had one.
Chapter Sixteen
When your paws get muddy, emotionally speaking, clean them on your opponent's finest fur. This reveals your complete power, as well as intimidates, and the more intimidated your opponent is, the less likely they are to attack you again.
Royce took care of me all morning, making tea, holding my hair out of the way when needed (i.e. when I vomited) and covering me with blankets while I lay in bed. Despite my abject humiliation and the fact that I was freakishly sick, I loved every minute of it. He was so much better everything than I ever could have predicted. So much more wonderful. So much more giving. So much more kind.
Today, we almost seemed like an old married couple. That should have caused me to puke yet again, but it didn't. I liked that he'd taken a shower at my place. I liked that he'd washed his clothes here-never mind that it was to get rid of stains and smells I'd caused.