Blast.

He was going to have to cancel their dinner date.

Bracing the heels of his hands on the bathroom vanity, Nate tried to will the roiling in his stomach into submission.

Didn’t work.

He emptied the last of the leftover pizza he’d had for lunch into the toilet, then closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.

The flu had struck, and it was nasty. In the space of two hours, he’d progressed from chills to body aches to high fever to puking his guts out.

All he wanted to do was crawl back into bed, pull up the covers, and die.

His plans for a romantic evening of fine dining, witty repartee, and a slow dance under the twinkling lights on the deck at the lakeside restaurant were toast.

Double blast.

Pushing off from the wall, he dragged himself back to bed and crawled under the covers. Before he crashed, he ought to drink fluids and take aspirin—but he didn’t have the energy to do either.

He hardly had the energy to phone Grace.

But he owed her a call. Otherwise she’d waste a lot of effort preparing for a date that wasn’t going to happen. It was already after two.

He reached for his cell on the nightstand, a maneuver that took far more effort than it should have, and pressed her number.

As her phone began to ring, he eased back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

“Well hello, Sheriff Cox. I didn’t expect to hear from you until your Jeep pulled up in front of my house tonight.”

Based on her upbeat, excited tone, she was going to be as disappointed in the change of plans for tonight as he was.

“About that.” He turned on his side and pulled up his legs as the muscles in his stomach spasmed. Again.

“Uh-oh.” A cautionary note crept into her voice. “Are you bailing on me?”

“Not by choice.” He pressed a hand against his stomach. “I have the flu.”

“Oh, Nate. I’m sorry.”

“You and me both. It hit about noon. And I do mean hit. Within ninety minutes, I was flat on my back. Since then, I’ve been in bed or worshiping the porcelain goddess. I’m really sorry about having to cancel.”

“Don’t apologize. The flu can knock you flat. Are you drinking fluids and keeping the fever under control?”

“Yes.” Or he would be, as soon as he mustered the energy to get up and take a few therapeutic measures.

“Can I do anything for you?”

“Yes. Keep your distance. I wouldn’t wish these symptoms on my worst enemy.” His midsection cramped again, and a wave of nausea swept over him. How on earth could there be anything left in his stomach?

“Are you certain I can’t help? I could drop a care package at your door.”

He swung his feet to the floor and waited a moment until the room stabilized. “No. I have everything I need.” He stood, hanging on to the headboard for support as his stomach began to heave. “Listen, I have to go. I think the volcano is about to erupt again—and formalin isn’t the culprit this go-round.”