Boxed Set: The His Submissive Series Complete Collection (Part One-Part Twelve) (31 page)

“You okay?” Megan asked outside the stall. I guess that was the one up-side. She didn’t just see me puke up chunks of food.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and rushed out of the gross cubicle like it was on fire. I flipped on the water at the sink and used my hand as a gourd, gurgling and spitting it out.

I gripped the sides of the sink, willing the nausea way. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not,” she said, calling my bluff.

I gave her a weak smile in the mirror. “No. I’m not.”

She pulled off a couple of paper towels and reached around me to wet them. “C’mere.” I turned to her and held still while she pressed the cool thing against my forehead. “Don’t think about Jacob or Cade or any of that right now.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “How the hell am I supposed to not think about it?”

“Well you can start by not giving me attitude,” she said sternly, pulling the paper towel from my forehead and tossing it into the trash. “What good are you to anybody or anything if you have a nervous breakdown?”

She had a point, but I couldn’t get Jacob’s eyes out of my head. “I can’t just not think about it.”

“Well how about this: I’ll go pay the bill then you and me are going to see some ridiculous movie. Nothing action-y,” she added when my face soured, “And nothing sappy.”

“That leaves kiddy movies or some depressing foreign film.”

“I hear Wreck-it-Ralph is amazing,” she said with a sly grin.

“Wreck-it-Ralph?” I repeated slowly, sure I misheard her.

She steered me out of the bathroom and back to our table, leafing through her wallet and dropping a twenty. Before I could go through the list of reasons why I had no interest in seeing an animated movie, we’d already climbed into her car and were pointed in the direction of the movie theater.

“I really just want to go home,” I said dismally. And listen to some highly emo Pandora station as I cried into my pillow.

“You can fight it all you want, but you’re wasting your breath.” She hit a button and the car made the metallic clunk of locks engaging. “We’re seeing it. Doctor’s orders.”

“Doctor’s?” I said incredulously. “You moonlighting as a medical professional in between molding young minds?”

“I took a biology class once,” she said with a wink. “And I dressed up as Meredith Grey last Halloween.”

“Well there’s no fighting that logic,” I laughed.

Laughing. Me. Even though everything in my personal life had gone to shit.

I sat back in the seat, conceding. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

****

A
fter uncontrollably sobbing during Wreck-It Ralph like it was a Nicholas Sparks movie then falling into a restless sleep on Megan's futon, I didn't think it was possible to wake up feeling worse than I did the night before.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Every part of me ached. The very act of reaching for my cell to shut off my alarm felt like lifting free weights. And when I could no longer press snooze and make it to work on time, my attempt to stand just drove the throbbing agony to my head.

I felt like I'd been hit by a dump truck. Twice. I couldn't even keep a glass of water down. The only bright side was Megan was OCD when it came to housecleaning so getting up close and personal with her toilet didn't make the nausea worse. And then there was the fact that whatever stomach issue I had kept me from the office—and facing Jacob.

After a succinct conversation where Natasha managed to gleefully delight in my crappy state of health, we figured out a way for me to just work from home so I wouldn't get behind.

I flipped open my laptop, dragging my hands to the keyboard. I pulled up the Whitmore and Creighton portal, eyes narrowing as my stomach trembled. It had been about an hour since I’d attempted drinking something and I knew I needed to stay hydrated unless I wanted to add dehydration to the list.

I dropped my laptop back on the tumble of sheets beside me and sucked in a steadying breath before I stood up. I went rigid as a statue, exhaling after I maintained my balance for a full minute.

So far so good
, I thought warily.
Halfway there
.

The kitchen was only a few feet from the futon (Thank God) but I still gripped the island, just in case it was adrenaline keeping me vertical. Megan had left out a couple of Gatorades right on the counter beside the stove and there was also a pack of saltines, but I was nowhere near brave enough for solids.

I cracked one open and brought it to my lips. I gingerly sipped it and paused in case my body rejected it, but nothing happened. I finished the rest and dropped the empty bottle into the recycle bin.

Feeling slightly more confident, I didn’t inch my way back to the couch. Maybe this day wouldn’t be pure hell. I stopped short, only a few feet from solid ground when I heard two solid thumps coming from the door.

Fear rippled through me. Who could it be? Megan had a key, and she was knee deep in elementary kids at this point. She didn’t live in the safest of neighborhoods so of course my mind shot to the worst possible scenario, all of which ended with me being assaulted, robbed, and left in a bloody heap on the floor.
That’s what I get for all of those Law and Order: SVU marathons
.

The knocks magnified and a deep, familiar voice accompanied them. “Leila?”

It had to be some fevered dream. I was knocked out, imagining things. To prove it, I pinched my arm then hissed when the pain came through loud and clear. I took a tiny step toward the door, opening my mouth then snapping it shut.

“Leila, if you’re in there-”

I rocketed to the door. Ever since he stormed out of my office I wanted him to come back to me, and here he was. I couldn’t let him walk away again.

Jacob. Holding a crumpled bouquet of roses.

And looking as horrible as I felt.

His dark hair was a crumpled mess with the layered locks sticking out every which way. His usually strong jaw was hidden by shadow and untouched by a razor. His blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy from lack of sleep. His white, button down shirt had an ashen, dusty parlor and I realized with a gasp it was likely the shirt he wore the day before. But there was one earthquake status difference. His shirt was half tucked, half not into a pair of dark wash jeans.

Jeans.

Jacob Whitmore was wearing jeans.

I was definitely dreaming. Even on our most relaxed days in Venice, he still wore blazers with sleek cut trousers. Jacob was a walking, talking advertisement for sophistication. He just didn’t do jeans.

I must have been gawking like I was watching a train wreck unfold before my very eyes because he gestured with the roses, bringing me back. “Planning on inviting me in?”

I blushed and stepped aside, letting him past. My eyes dropped to his rear and a flash of lust echoed through me. Despite the rest of his wrinkled exterior, he looked like sex on a stick in those jeans.

He stopped in the living room area, glancing around the place with silent disapproval. “This is where you’re staying?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling defensive. “You have a lot of-” My eyes widened when I realized there was something slightly more important than defending Meg’s place. “How did you know where to find me?”

His cool gaze drunk me in. “Well, I’m not stalking you if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s not what I asked,” I said, bemused. “How did you find me?”

He ran a hand over his cropped hair. “I called your mother.”

“My mother?” I winced.
Great, just great
. I could just imagine her perched on the edge of her seat, already prepping to call her contacts. I’d have a mess to clean up by lunch.

“She’s worried about you,” he continued, clearly picking up on my wariness. “She told me that she had no idea where you were, but your friend Megan might.”

“So you just decided to show up at her house,” I said, crossing my arms.

“I’m not sure if five hundred square feet can be called a ‘house’, Leila.”

“I’m sorry you had to come to the slums,” I said, dripping with sarcasm. “But I’m sure you didn’t come all the way here to school me on real estate.” I glared at him. “Should I bend over? Take my licks like a good girl?”

I saw the retort flash in his eyes before he remembered the bouquet he was holding. Or the roses that were left. Red petals made a trail from the door to where he stood, piling up at his feet.

“These are for you.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I got them last night but...” His nostrils flared. “Anyway, here you go.”

I took them, a smile tipping at my lips as I brought the fragrant flowers to my nose and breathed them in. “For me?”

He gave me a hesitant nod.

“Thank you,” I said, staring at him, wanting to feel something other than the apprehension but only remembering our argument and the hurt. Swallowing, I pushed away the slight dizziness that hit me and walked to the counter, placing the roses beside the sink. I took another step and swayed, feeling the nausea taking over.

Nonononono!
I thought frantically, knowing it was coming. Knowing there was no stopping it.

I dashed to the bathroom, surprisingly making it to the toilet. My body took over, pushing the Gatorade from my system.

When I stopped gagging, I sunk back into my bones and felt sick for a whole other reason. Did I remember to shut the door? The floor creaked and I squeezed my eyes closed so tight I saw stars.

Oh God.

He just saw it. He just saw it all.

He rushed into the bathroom, throwing the water on. I felt so weak that I could barely turn my head or open my mouth to tell him I was alright. I felt his fingers rake through my hair, sweeping the curls back and pressing a wet washcloth against my temple.

You’re done
, I commanded silently.
You will not puke while Jacob Whitmore holds your hair back.

I fully expected my body to revolt. After all, it had been going rogue since that first wave of nausea hit last night. But somehow I kept it together, breathing in and out without vomit rising in my throat. Jacob was right there, stroking my back, his calm and zen washing over me.

Finally, I felt strong enough to stand to my feet. He took a few steps back and I closed the lid and flushed the toilet. I avoided his gaze in the mirror as I washed my hands. He offered me a towel and I pressed it to my lips. When I finally met his eyes, I saw white hot terror and an unspoken question.

“I’m not pregnant!” I blurted, squashing that assumption dead. We were pretty careful and I was on birth control. “I think Rudy’s is the culprit. Delicious going down, not so much coming back up.”

He visibly relaxed. “Food poisoning?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I said with a sigh, then frowned. “You didn’t talk to Natasha? I told her I thought I had a stomach thing.”

Jacob’s jaw twitched. “She didn’t say anything when I called this morning.”

Of course she didn’t. I pushed away my frustration. I had bigger things to worry about—like my inability to keep fluids or solids down. And the fact that Jacob just had a front row seat to yuck.

I blushed every shade of red, trying to think of something to say. To do. “I’m sorry.”

He gently tilted my chin upward, his face awash with concern. “You’re apologizing for being sick?”

“But you just saw-”

“You don’t feel well. You’re human.” He leaned in and pressed his lips against my forehead. “It doesn’t make you any less attractive or make me love you any less.” He pulled back. “You don’t really think I’m that shallow, do you?”

I nibbled on my lip, shaking my head. “I think you’re amazing.”

The side of his mouth arched upward, creating a gorgeous half smile. “Amazing, huh?”

And just like that, I didn’t feel as sick and wanted to do so many other things. Most of them would require him stripping off those jeans, which really was a shame. But I was pretty sure that Jacob and I would both be scarred for life if we kissed and I...I shuddered at the very thought.

“You okay?” he regarded me slowly, his eyes soft with tenderness.

“I’m fine,” I nodded at the door behind me. “I think I’d feel better with a little distance between me and this room though.”

He let me file out first then closed the door solidly behind us. I balled up the sheets on the couch and tossed them on the beanbag in the corner. Jacob’s eyebrows arched in amusement before he walked over and sat down beside me.

“What?” I said, peering over at him. “Surprised that you’re actually sitting on a real-life futon?”

“This isn’t the first futon I’ve sat on or slept on,” he said with a smirk. He took in my shock and elaborated. “When I was sixteen, I ran away from home. I was sick of my parents, of all the expectations that came with the Whitmore last name so I crashed on a friend’s futon, a few blocks from the Village. I spent a month fancying myself an artist, living off Ramen and coffee until my mother came down and convinced me to return home.”

It was hard to picture Jacob as an artist type, curled up on a futon with a coffee mug. Heck, as soon as he said ‘ran away’ I assumed he went to Europe or somewhere warm and tropical.

“Now
you
look surprised,” he mused, stretching his arm out on the cushion behind me.

“I just assumed a super-rich kid’s idea of running away would look a lot different than sleeper sofas and Oodles of Noodles.”

He let out a grunt of acknowledgment and glanced away. I guess we were done talking about the past. That just left the present.

And our future.

“I want to talk about what you said yesterday,” I said softly.

I half expected him to interrupt me halfway through, as soon as he got the gist of where the conversation was headed. Assert his dominance and remind me who was in charge; who had the right to be angry and hurt. But all he offered was, “Okay”.

I chewed on my lip, picking at a hole in the futon cover. “You brought up what happened with Rachel.” I breathed deep as the hurt returned. “Compared it to not telling you about Cade.” My eyes shifted to him, holding still when I saw he was watching me intently. “It wasn’t really a fair comparison.”