Another bite, and another, and there were maybe three mouthfuls left on my plate when I realised that I simply wasn’t going to make it until the end.

“Is there a … a bathroom?” I gasped, standing up, pressing two fingers to my mouth. “I need to … freshen up.”

He stood, immediately taking me by the elbow. “Come, let’s find one.”

I shook him off, but the pain rippled through me again, and I couldn’t stifle the moan this time.

“Mouse—Jemma … what’s wrong?” His voice was filled with concern.

“As if you don’t know!” I hissed, clutching my stomach. He reached for me again, but I shoved him away, racing for the door. It opened into a long walkway that overlooked the main floor of the restaurant. Down there it was buzzing with happy diners. Thankfully none of them even glanced upwards as I staggered along the walkway, one hand pressed to my aching stomach, the other clamped over my mouth. Finally I spotted a toilet sign and, almost whimpering in relief, I flung myself through the door.

There was no time to lock it. I wasn’t sure I’d even make it to the toilet on the far wall. I fell to my knees, crawling, finding the bowl, tugging myself closer, just in time for the meal to come hurtling back out of me.

I heaved, and cried, and hiccupped, and vomited again. And again. And again. My skin felt clammy, my head ached, and the pain just wouldn’t stop!

“Jemma, are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” I lied and vomited again. Nothing much was coming out now, but my stomach seemed intent on trying to expel itself from my body through my mouth.

“I’m coming in!”

“No!” I protested, but my throat was scratchy and stinging, and my mouth felt swollen.

“You’re obviously unwell. Please, let me help you.” His voice was shaking. Was he laughing at me?

“Go away! I’m fine, I just … I need a moment, and then I’ll be back to finish the—” I vomited again.

The door opened.

“Get out! This is private!” I protested. And heaved again. Nothing came out.

Warmth bloomed behind me, his breath on the back of my neck.

“I will not leave. You’re sick, Mouse.”

I had no voice left to protest his use of that damned nickname or to question why he sounded so agonised over this. Wasn’t this exactly what he’d planned? To ensure I couldn’t possibly win this task because my stupid body hated me and hated gluten more.

And then his warm hands were gently drawing strands of hair away from my face, and a cup of water was handed to me. I sipped at it, my stomach so tender from all the retching. I gagged, and I was over the bowl again, the water coming straight back up.