Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love #1)(68)

“Dance with me,” Melinda says, her hands sliding up my jacket.

“Melinda, catch a clue. I danced to be polite. You and I are never going to happen. It’s Nova, and this song belongs to her.”

She gapes at me as I turn around, maneuvering through the crowd.

Andrew’s hand rests on Nova’s shoulder as he grabs her another glass of champagne off a tray. He leans down to whisper something in her ear. With their backs to me, I acknowledge the crazy mix of emotions boiling in my chest—part possessiveness, the other side something I can’t put my finger on. Maybe rage. She spent years with him. She fucking loved him. Maybe she still does.

“Excuse me; it’s our song, babe,” I say gruffly, then turn her around.

She smiles up at me, her eyes unusually bright. “Darling! Andrew was just telling me about his vacation home at the beach in Galveston. He wants to know if we’d like to visit—”

“I prefer the Pacific Ocean. Bye, Andrew.” Using my shoulders, I push him away with a slight bump, then lead her out to the dance floor.

She exhales. “Rude.”

“Don’t care.” My hands encircle her waist. “You seem to be having a good time.”

She twines her arms around my neck as her throat bobs. She looks away. “Right back at you.”

“You left me, Princess,” I grind out.

She shrugs, then leans her head on my chest. A long exhale comes from me as our bodies connect, some of that earlier tension ebbing away.

“I thought our song was ‘Jolene,’” she murmurs. “Of course it’s a song about a woman begging another woman to leave her man alone.”

“I like this one.”

She sighs, her fingers playing with my hair. “Have you ever listened to this one the whole way through?”

“Yes.”

She looks up at me. “Oh?”

“It’s about a man who falls for a girl the night they meet. He wants to spend his life with her.”

“Then it doesn’t fit us at all,” she says. “Does it?”

Her face tilts up as her gaze searches mine, and something about the shadows in her eyes . . . I inhale a sharp breath as clarity dawns. I see her face that night in New York, clear as day, the impish smile when we met, the way her eyes burned for me. Subconsciously, that morning after I awoke, my brain erased her face. Sure, I had a rationale for it, that I was drunk, but the truth is . . . I felt a visceral connection to Nova, my loss clinging to her joy—and my head couldn’t handle the guilt that it was so close to Whitney’s anniversary.

She drops her gaze and swallows thickly. “Ronan . . .”

“Yeah?”

She presses her face into my chest. “I don’t feel so good . . .”

I stop our dancing and tilt her face up. “What’s wrong?”

Her lashes flutter as sweat beads her face. She licks her lips. “It’s so hot in here. Please—”

My chest seizes as the blood leaves her face. “Nova?” My voice carries across the crowd, and I feel eyes darting to us.

“Air.” She tries to get out of my arms, then stumbles, and I reach for her, straightening her before she falls. I sweep her up and shove us through the dancers, bumping them out of the way. As soon as we clear the floor, she pulls away from me and runs through the yard into a garden with statues and manicured landscaping.

“Nova!” I catch up with her as she stands behind a cypress tree, gulping in air. Even for late October, it’s hot and sticky. She holds her stomach, then bends over and throws up.

I rub her back. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“I just ruined an azalea,” she breathes out, wiping her mouth with her hands. Her body weaves.

“Fuck the plants.” I take her up into my arms again and stride through the lawn, bypassing the tent and walking around the house. My eyes dart from her tense face to the dark path. Her hair has fallen and lies over my arm as I dart across the street, holding her close to my chest so I don’t jostle her.

“I can drive,” she gasps out when we reach my car. “You’re supposed to stay at the party. Take me to my—” She stiffens, her eyes widening, and I ease her down. Her hand hangs on to me as she vomits again, her shoulders heaving.

When she stands, I open my passenger door, pick her up, and strap her in. Grabbing napkins from the side pocket, I wipe her face gently, then clean her dress. “What’s wrong? Was it the champagne or—”

“If you’re thinking I’m pregnant, I’m not.” She sucks in a breath. “Turn on the air, please.”

I get in and crank the car, blasting the air conditioner, pointing the vents in her direction. “Do we need to go to a hospital?”

She leans back on the headrest, shaking her head. “No. Roll my window down. In case.”

“Tell me when to pull over, okay? Just don’t take off your seat belt.”

She winces. “Vomit is on your jacket. I’m sorry.”

“Shh, it’s fine. Hang on.” Whipping out of the parking lot, I drive past the big houses, pointing the car toward her place. My heart pounds. It’s just vomit, so why am I so worried? It’s not the pregnant thing; I believe her when she says she isn’t, but . . .

I ease my hand over, find hers, and hold it tight.