Chapter 107

Summer’s POV

My internal monologue screamed, This is not how I saw my Thursday evening going—as I folded myself over the hopefully-sanitized porcelain throne, gasping the way a cartoon character does after sprinting across a TNT-laced canyon. Jared’s hand glided down my back, warm and steady, anchoring me against the surging nausea.

Tears dripped down my cheeks—not sad tears, mind you, just involuntary leakages courtesy of my gut’s betrayal. “Think I’m good,” I mumbled, tasting last night’s regrettable fish taco in every syllable.

He handed me a hotel-grade bottle of water like it was ambrosia. I swished it around, minding not to let the mint-scented water congeal with my acid reflux and spat it out like it was the worst mouthwash ever invented. He cradled me like a backpack, my head cushioned on his chest, my limbs draped over him in some sort of human slinky, and I realized I’d never felt so cared for mid-hurl. Only Jared could make puking almost bearable.