Page 29 of The Rom-Commers

One minute, I was fine—or as fine as you can be when your personal hero is telling you you’re worthless—and the next minute, as Charlie held the car door, and I stepped onto the driveway, coming face-to-face with him by a matter of inches, close enough that I could feel his gaze on me like a breeze, I felt a swell of nausea, heard a rushing sound in my ears, and watched the edges of my vision go dark.

Next, I was coming to, flat on my back on the concrete, Charlie’s face hovering above mine, frowning, his eyes dark with intensity. “Emma!” he was saying. “Emma!”

But the sound was muffled, and out of sync a little.

In slow-mo, Charlie moved his head away and pressed it to my chest. Was he listening to my heart? Checking my breathing? I can still see that chestnut-brown hair of his, as if my mind paused to snap a photo. He was on his hands and knees beside me, but next I saw him launch up and run—run!—to the back of his truck to grab my suitcase and drag it toward me. Then he was lifting my legs and resting them on it to elevate them.

Then his face came back to my face, peering close.

“Emma?”

I could hear him more clearly now.

He was handsome. To me, at least. There was no way around it.

Don’t talk about his nostrils. Don’t talk about his nostrils.

Thank god I was too nauseated to speak.

I started to sit up, but Charlie shook his head. “Don’t get up! You’re not supposed to stand. Give it a second.”

I relaxed back against the driveway as Charlie wriggled out of his overshirt, wadded up a makeshift pillow, and tucked it under my head, cradling my face to his shoulder for a second to get it placed.

Dammit. He smelled good.

Whatever his deodorant was, it cured the nausea like a tonic.

I watched him rise again, and then come back from the car with a bottle of water. He squirted some on his palm, shook off the excess, and then smoothed the water over my forehead.

“What are you doing?” I asked, better enough at last to talk.

“I’m cooling you off.”

“I’m not hot.”

“The internet says to.”

Fine. I wouldn’t argue with the internet. It felt nice, anyway.

“You fainted,” Charlie said, looking genuinely worried.

“I’m sorry,” I said, closing my eyes.

“You scared me. You went so white.”

“I don’t think I’ve eaten anything today,” I said. “Or yesterday.”

“Nothing?” Charlie said, likeWhy not?

I didn’t have the energy to obfuscate. “I was nervous to meet you.”

“So nervous you didn’t eat for two days?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not that scary,” Charlie said.

But I shook my head. “You’re scarier. If I’d known what it would actually be like, I wouldn’t have eaten for a month.”

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