Page 56 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

"You okay?" Hank's voice is closer than I expected. I open my eyes to find him watching me, spatula in hand, concern etched in the furrow of his brow.

"Fine," I manage. "Just a little..." I wave my hand vaguely, unable to explain what I don't understand myself.

Hank's eyes narrow, assessing. He flips the bacon with practiced ease, never looking away from my face. "You're pale."

"Am I?" I try to laugh, but it comes out strangled. "Must be the lighting in here."

The sausage pops in the pan, sending another wave of scent my way. Bile rises in my throat, hot and sudden. I press my hand to my mouth, eyes widening in horror.

"Bathroom," I choke out, already moving. "Sorry—I need?—"

I don't finish the sentence, literally can't finish it. I flee the kitchen, down the hallway to the small powder room, barely making it inside before my body revolts completely. I heave into the toilet, my empty stomach offering little but bitter acid. My eyes water, my throat burns, and humiliation washes over me in waves nearly as powerful as the nausea.

When it finally subsides, I slump against the cool porcelain, breathing hard. What is happening to me? I was fine until the meat. Even that sad excuse for coffee earlier didn't bother me. Just the meat, with its raw, animal smell. I gag again at the thought.

I push myself up shakily and flush the toilet, then move to the sink to rinse my mouth and splash cold water on my face. Myreflection in the mirror is startling—pale skin, eyes too bright, an alarming vulnerability.

A soft knock on the door makes me jump.

"Ivy?" Hank's voice, concerned but not demanding. "Need anything?"

I close my eyes, mortification washing over me anew. First crying in front of him, now this. He must think I'm a complete mess.

"I'm fine," I call back, my voice hoarse. "Must be a stomach bug."

There's a pause, and I imagine him on the other side of the door, weighing his words as carefully as he does everything else.

"I'll make toast for you," he says finally. "Plain. Easy on the stomach."

The simple kindness of it makes my throat tight for a reason that has nothing to do with nausea. "Thank you," I manage.

"Take your time," he says, and I hear his footsteps retreat down the hall.

I turn on the faucet again, letting the cold water run over my wrists. My mind races with possibilities. A virus. Food poisoning from yesterday. Nerves about the date conversation.

But a small, quiet voice in the back of my mind offers another explanation—one I'm not ready to consider. It can't be that. No, it has to be a bug. Just a temporary thing that will pass.

I straighten up, dry my hands, and take a deep breath. Whatever this is, I'll deal with it. I've weathered public scandals, family drama, and a broken heart. I can handle a little nausea.

Chapter 26

Ivy

The cabin feels too quiet. I fold a blanket on the couch, straighten a stack of firewood, and wonder if this is what it’s like to be a real mountain woman. There’s a lot of waiting and wishing you had someone to talk to.

I glance at the door, hoping the guys will come back soon. They’re off fixing something or another, checking the fences, and whatever else they do all day. And I’m here with no cell service and no clue what to do with myself. I’m not used to this kind of solitude.

I picked up a few paperbacks the last time we went into town, but I can only reread a book so many times before it starts eating away at my sanity. So, I’m doing chores.

I walk into the kitchen, where breakfast dishes are still piled up. I’m learning to cook, but I haven’t quite mastered cleaning as I go. I roll up my sleeves and dive in. The water is cold, even when I crank it to hot. I wonder if the pipes are too cold. Maybe I’ll leave the plumbing to Wyatt.

After the dishes, I add logs to the fire. I still can’t do it as well as Hank, but I’m getting better. The flames crackle and dance, and I settle in front of them, letting the warmth seep into mybones. I should be relaxed, but I’m not. I feel restless, like I’m waiting for something.

A loud meow startles me. Gremlin is pacing around the room. She’s usually aloof, popping up only when she wants food or to go outside. Hank’s the only one she really likes and “like” seems such a strong word for that relationship. “Tolerates” is more fitting. When she’s not skulking around the cabin, she’s usually holed up in Hank’s room.

“What’s up, Gremlin?” I ask, watching her. She meows again, like she’s trying to tell me something.

I kneel down, getting a closer look. Her belly seems bigger than it was before. I blink, wondering if I’m imagining things. She’s a skinny cat, all bones and attitude, but now there’s a definite roundness.

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