“Are you here to tell me what I need to say to make things right between us? Are you ready to stop playing this stupid guessing game with me? I love you. I am sorry. What three words? Those are good words. I’m an idiot. How do you like those three words? I need you. I want you. Are those the right words?” He takes another step and grabs my wrist to prevent me from distancing myself from him.

When I try to pull away, he tugs me closer, hugging my arms to his chest. His gaze slips to my hand. “Nice nail polish. Those are three words. Are they the ones you’re looking for?”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, you big jerk!” All attempts to tear myself away from his hold are futile. “You’re judging me because I have nail polish on my nails. I bet you were judging me when I walked in here with those five-hundred-dollar shoes. And my handbag that’s made of dead cowhide. And my makeup that’s covering up the bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. You can’t love me unless I’m the person you created in your head.”

“That’s not—”

I bring my other hand to my mouth and my cheeks puff out. Oh god … I’m going to be sick. Sydney will pay for this. She’s always grabbing the wrong water glass off the counter. Could there possibly be worse timing?

“Ave?” Jake loosens his grip on me.

I shake my head and pull away, keeping my mouth covered as I dart in the direction of the bathroom. Before I can shut the door behind me, I drop to my knees and expel the contents of my stomach as sweat beads along my brow.

“Go …” I hold out a flat hand as Jake hands me a cup of water and a wet washcloth. “I don’t want you to see this.”

“Too late.” He presses the washcloth to my forehead and shoves the glass of water into my hands as I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with a wad of toilet paper.

“Stay back. You don’t want this. Sydney’s sick. It’s contagious. Just …” I take the water, rinse my mouth, and flush the toilet.

He helps me to my feet.

“Yuck.” I frown at the few splatters of vomit on the floor by his toilet. “I’m sorry.”

I swish some water again and spit in the sink.

“I forgive you,” he whispers. Barely even a whisper, but I hear it.

I glance up at his reflection in the mirror. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his colorful arms over his chest.

Coughing on a bit of sarcasm, I shake my head. “Gee, thanks. It’s good to know that vomiting on your floor isn’t unforgivable in your high standards.”

“I don’t give a fuck about my floor.”