Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(75)

“Sorry,” I murmur to my friends. “I didn’t realize I was being an attention hog.”

“You’re hilarious,” Mackenzie assures me. “I’m a superstitious crazy-pants baseball nut raised by two drag queens. I’ve seen some super hilarious things—”

“And you’ve done some pretty hilarious things,” Marisol interjects.

“Yes. That too. But I’ve never scared myself into thinking a coatrack was an intruder.”

“Or written a book about it,” Tillie Jean chimes in.

“You could though,” I tell Mackenzie. “You’re funny too. I’ll bet you have a book in you!”

And that’s not guilt talking because I don’t want my sister to write a book.

I want everyone to write a book. I love writing books.

Just not Elsa.

And now I feel like crap again.

“Watermelon?” a handsome hockey player in the cowboy hat asks as he returns with a giant bowl of fruit.

“Oh, I love watermelon! Thank you!”

We all grab smaller bowls and forks and dig in, and wow.

“This is the best watermelon ever,” I tell Mackenzie.

Check that. This is the best party ever.

There’s music, but it’s not so loud that you can’t hear anyone else talking, and no one’s trying to out-dance one another on the coffee table, and there’s anything you could possibly want to eat or drink, and Luca and I look like we’re here together, even though he disappeared down a hallway a while ago and I haven’t seen him since.

I’ve stopped talking, mostly, and I’m listening now to Marisol whisper about how she caught Emilio talking to his mother on the phone about how he couldn’t go home for all of December because he’s taking Marisol on vacation.

“To Thailand,” she repeats. “He told her he’s taking me to Thailand.”

“Is that a good thing?” I have to clear my throat, which is getting scratchy like there’s air freshener that’s annoying it or something.

“I’ve wanted to go to Thailand since I was seven years old. It’s like, dream vacation. And he knows it.” She pauses and frowns. “At least, he better know it.”

“I know nothing,” Mackenzie says.

Tillie Jean nods. “Same. Cooper’s oblivious, and even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t talk about it at home. Gossip and Cooper only go together if it’s family, since he thinks it’s bad luck to gossip about his teammates.”

My gut grumbles, and something sour twists halfway between my mouth and my belly, and my lips are starting to itch. “Is it warm in here?”

“No, it’s—ohmygod, Henri.”

I wiggle my nose.

It doesn’t wiggle back, but there’s a tell-tale tickle in my sinuses that have my eyes both watering and going round at the same time.

I know what this is.

I know exactly what this is.

“Do you need to sit?” Tillie Jean asks.

“Sit? Honey, she needs a doctor.” Marisol grabs my hand and lifts it so we can all see the flush spreading across my skin. “Are you allergic to—oh, shit. Somebody get Luca.”

“Already on it,” Mackenzie calls as she darts away.

Tillie Jean grabs my plate and sniffs the watermelon, then nibbles on one of the strawberries at the edge of the chocolate pool from the chocolate fountain. “Henri, how much of this did you eat?”

“Jus a li’l,” I slur.

Mostly because my tongue is tingling and won’t work right either. “I di’nt tay it.”

“I didn’t taste it either, honey,” Marisol says. “That’s some high-quality stuff right there. Emilio? Emilio! Go tell that man to hurry his butt up and get out here.”

“I’m okay,” I manage to say like a normal human being who isn’t having an allergic reaction to alcohol.

Oh, god.

Oh god oh god oh god.

If I’m wheezing, I know what’s next.

“Bathroom,” I squeak.

“Wha—”

I grab Marisol by the collar of her adorable sequin top and drag her close to me, speaking carefully to get the enunciation right. “I need. To ged. To da bafroom.”

Her dark eyes go wide, and she nods emphatically. “Yeah. Let’s get you to the bathroom. Now.”

She and Tillie Jean heft me back to my feet, which is silly, because I can still mostly feel my feet, and they drag me toward the hallway where Luca disappeared, only to make a sharp turn into a powder room as he pops out of a room down the way. “Henri?”

“She had vodka-infused fruit,” Tillie Jean explains.

“Oh, fuck.”

My stomach gurgles again, and I shove Marisol and Tillie Jean out of the bathroom, because they don’t need to witness this.

They really don’t need to witness this.

In fact, it would be best if the entire penthouse cleared out entirely for the next couple hours.

Preferably so that I can lie down on the floor and die of embarrassment in peace.

Luca catches the door. “Henri—”

“Out!”

“But—”

“Benadryl!” I screech.

Oh god oh god oh god, I need him to leave, because he can’t be witness to what my stomach makes me do when I’ve had alcohol.