Page 82 of Ruthless Claim

That I’m in love with her.

I close my eyes.

Outside, New York is going quiet. In here, she breathes.

And I let myself believe it.

9

VALENTINA

I blame the sushi.

That’s my first thought when I wake up on a Tuesday morning and my stomach immediately and enthusiastically disagrees with the concept of me being vertical.

Bad fish. It happens.

I’ve eaten at that restaurant a hundred times, but there’s always a risk with the yellowtail. I knew that, but I ate it anyway because Cillian had ordered it and it looked good and I wanted some.

That’s a whole separate problem I’ll deal with later, because right now I’m thinking about how quickly I can get to the bathroom.

Very quickly, as it turns out. I make it, but barely.

I’m on my knees on the cold tile when I hear him behind me.

“What’s going on?” His voice is rough with sleep then sharper, awake all at once.

His hand finds my hair before I’ve registered he’s crouched down, pulling it back and gathering it out of the way.

I want to tell him to go away because this is humiliating and I would like to be sick in private like a dignified person, but another wave hits and the dignified person option is not currently available.

To my surprise, he stays.

He doesn’t say anything or make it weird.

Instead, he holds my hair and puts his other hand flat on my back, warm through my pajamas, and waits.

When it’s over, I sit back on my heels and press the back of my hand to my mouth, staring at the wall. I feel very sorry for myself.

“The sushi,” I croak, wincing at the acidic taste in my mouth.

“Probably,” he agrees, his hand still on my back.

“It was the yellowtail. I know it is. I said to myself, Val, the yellowtail is a risk⁠—”

Cillian makes a sound that’s between a scoff and a laugh. “You didn’t say that.”

“I thought it very loudly.” I accept the glass of water he’s somehow already holding—when did he get up?—and rinse my mouth. I breathe through my nose and try to recover some shred of composure after vomiting my guts out. “I’m fine. Go to your meeting.”

He looks at me, blue eyes moving over my face with that unhurried attention he has. “I can reschedule⁠—”

“Cillian.” I give him a look. “It’s bad fish. I’m not dying. Go.”

He reluctantly goes, but twice he stops in the doorway and looks back at me. I wave him off both times.

By the time I hear the elevator doors shut, I’ve managed to get myself upright and back into bed where I lie very still and breathe.

It’s the yellowtail. I’ll be fine by lunchtime.