Page 28 of Love to Hate You

He grins, and they go back to watching TV.

I jerk my thumb toward the kitchen even though neither of them are paying me the least bit of attention. “I’m, ah, going to…” I don’t bother finishing the sentence. Instead, I back into the kitchen to hide.

I’m tempted to pick up my bag and duck out for the rest of the evening, but I can’t do that to Noah. I need to make sure he’s all right. Whatever happens is my fault. Even if he doesn’t realize it yet.

“Hey, Daze, would you mind getting me a ginger ale from the fridge?” he asks. “My stomach feels funky.”

“Um, yeah,” I call back. “No problem.” I grab a bottle of soda and head into the living room.

Is it my imagination or does Noah look pale?

Maybe a little sweaty?

And he’s shifting around as if he’s sitting on pins and needles and trying to get comfortable.

“Are you okay?” I pass him the bottle.

He turns to Ashley and says, “Babe, would you mind moving over and giving me some room?”

Ashley scoots a couple of feet away, and Noah sits more upright. With his elbows perched on his knees, he twists off the cap from the ginger ale and takes a small swig.

“I must have eaten something that doesn’t agree with me.” Noah’s stomach lets loose a long gurgle of distress. “I feel terrible.”

Ashley folds her arms against her chest. “It’s the brownies. I told you not to eat so much. Your body’s rebelling against all the sugar.” She glances at her phone and then at him. “We’re supposed to meet Katie and Harper at the movie theater in an hour.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assures her.

But he looks far from fine.

The door to the apartment opens, and Carter strolls in with a duffle bag hoisted over a shoulder. Pausing in the living room, he stares at us one by one. “What’s going on?”

“Oh…um…” I stutter, studying the seams in the floorboards.

“Noah’s not feeling well,” Ashley pipes up.

Carter takes a closer look at his friend. “You okay, man?” He takes a few steps in Noah’s direction. “Anything I can do?”

My cousin drags a hand over his face and shakes his head. “No. My stomach is just a little unsettled.” His intestines rumble more loudly than before.

Carter drops his bag and goes to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, he fills it from the tap and takes a long drink. “Hey? Who made brownies?”

Argh!

The brownies!

I sprint to the kitchen. As I turn the corner, Carter has the knife poised above the pan and is on the verge of cutting into the dessert. I grab a corner, jerking it from the counter and out of his reach.

“Hey!” He frowns. “I was just about to have a piece.”

“No, you’re not. I’m throwing them away,” I babble. “They aren’t any good.”

He holds the knife in the air as I open the cabinet under the sink where the garbage is located and dump the entire thing—pan and all—into the trash bin.

Carter’s eyes widen, and he stares at me like I’m a complete psycho. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Noah isn’t the only one sweating bullets. Perspiration beads the back of my shirt and the crevice between my breasts. My palms are so slick that I wipe them on my jeans.

“Nothing,” I mumble, staring over his shoulder.

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