Marnie Strange—the most horrible hostess in history! My head splits as if acid eats away at my brain. The flowers mixed with Cora’s perfume, making it worse. And now, I’m hugging a toilet, dry heaving, while more guests than I’ve ever had at once congregate in my living room. My eyes water and spill over under the strain of it all—the aches across my abdomen, the soreness of Giant Jelly, and the devastation of unattended guests, now left in the care of Grouchy Tripp.

Oh, and Cora looked about ready to commit murder. The last time I saw her this upset was when a disgruntled bagger egged her BMW. When she gets back in that swanky BMW of hers, I expect she’ll call Ashe to tell him that the man who destroyed our wedding day is taking care of me. This isn’t good.

I gag over the toilet again, just in time for Grady to slip into the bathroom. He sets something on the counter and rushes to my side. He angles himself on the tub’s edge, supporting me between his legs as I moan. Coughing and gagging cause serious pain in my midsection.

“You’re okay,” he tells me, pressing his cold hands against my head. “Try to relax.”

“I can’t,” I whimper. “I have guests.”

“They’re leaving. What did I tell you about being nice?”

My shoulders sink. He wets a washcloth with cold water and drapes it over my forehead. I lean into him, desperate to feel better.

“Just breathe,” he says. “There’s nothing in your stomach to throw up. When you’ve calmed down, I have your migraine medicine. Then, you have to eat something.”

The idea of keeping anything down feels agonizing. I choke back another gag with a deep breath.

Grady’s hands move gently through my hair as I lean against his knee.

“Thanks for moving the flowers,” I manage, knowing Hershey would find them hard to resist.

“You’re welcome. Saves us both, right?”

“Yeah.” I hover over the toilet again, an acidic surge playing in my throat.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, sweeping my hair off my face. “In and out. Just breathe.”

I do as he says, focusing on the rise and fall of my shoulders rather than the dizzying feeling in my head. But, soon, a surprising but familiar tug and pull on my hair relaxes me most. I don’t even realize he’s doing it at first—braiding my hair. It’s gentle and comforting, reminding me of Mom.

“What’s it going to be today, sweetheart?” she’d ask before school. “Feeling up? Or down? Or somewhere in the middle?” She’d laugh, listing off the hundreds of styles she could do. I liked high ponytails or long braids best. “Easy peasy,” she’d say.

“You braid hair?” I mutter weakly.