Fuck.
Everything reminded him of her.
Had Dash taken her cruising up the coast in this? The top down, her hair whipping around behind her.
He’d just go and buy his own convertible if she liked them that much.
“Won’t matter, dumb-ass. She ain’t into you. The cars aren’t the issue.” Feeling like a moron, he rubbed his hands up and down his face before tipping his head back to stare at the sky. He pulled in a couple of deep breaths, blew them out.
Once he had his head relatively clear, he moved away from the car and started toward the house.
He was only a few feet from the door when he heard the raised voices—raised, follow by a shout edged with something that sounded like panic.
***
Head spinning, Marin gripped Dash’s arm while another spasm of nausea gripped her.
She shuddered and got back over the toilet just in time.
She thought she might have just puked up everything she’d eaten—not just today, or even this week. Things she’d eaten six months ago might have just come pouring out of her.
“It’s okay, Marin,” Dash murmured, his voice steady and calm. “Just breathe . . . It will pass.”
She wanted to punch him.
Her entire face felt hot when she was finally able to ease back down and she collapsed against him, staring dully at the toilet.
“This is your fault, you know.”
“I think we’ve established it can’t be,” he said easily. “We haven’t gotten that far in our relationship. Although I’m happy to move things along . . . once you’re feeling better.”
She couldn’t even laugh. “You’re such a hound, Dash.”
“Hmm.” He brushed her hair back gently. “Think you can stand up?”
She wasn’t sure, but she was damn tired of being on bathroom floors. “Sure.”
“What the hell is going on?”
The new voice had her stiffening.
Slowly, she raised her head and met the eyes of Sebastien Barnes across the expanse of the bathroom. It was the smaller one tucked off of the main hall in her house, but there was still plenty of room. Marin liked having room. Lots of it. There wasn’t a single place in her home that wasn’t large enough to hold a small meeting inside it and that included the bathrooms. Not that she had meetings inside any of her bathrooms . . . normally.
But just then, as Sebastien crowded inside, things seemed to shrink in around her. As Dash eased upright, helping her up as well, she closed her hands into fists.
“What are you doing in here?”
He shot Dash a dark look. “I heard yelling—sounded like somebody was in trouble.” He scraped his nails down the five o’clock shadow on his face before adding, “The front door was unlocked, so I came in.”
Marin blinked, shaking her head. “Why . . . Sebastien, why did you think somebody was in trouble?”
The look on Sebastien’s face was one she knew quite well. It was a typical Barnes look—stubborn, resolute, defiant. Folding his arms over his chest, he lifted his chin. “I heard you yelling. Then somebody shouted—like I told you.”
“Oh, for the love of . . .” Too disgusted and tired to finish her sentence, she eased away from Dash. Her knees wobbled at first, but they held.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly, still standing close and keeping his voice down.
She didn’t know why he bothered. The smell in the air made it obvious what had happened. As they moved away from the toilet, it flushed automatically and she took a few steps toward the sink, desperate to wash away the foulness in her mouth. “I’m good, Dash. Thank you.” She glanced up at the mirror and without thinking, she added, “It’s still your fault.”
Sebastien’s frown deepened, while Dash pressed a hand to his heart and bowed his head. “Darling, if it will make you feel better, I’ll take full blame.”
“Sure you will.” Ignoring them both, she turned on the water and picked up a cup from the lip of the sink, taking a sip and swishing it in her mouth. She spat it out and did it three more times before she was satisfied. After washing her hands, she turned around and the wall of testosterone standing in front of her was enough to make her want to pull her hair.
Instead, she pushed between Sebastien and Dash and made her way into the kitchen. The pills.
Damn it. Where was that bottle at?
“Are you sick?” Sebastien asked from behind her.
Seizing the plausible excuse, she nodded. “Yes. You should probably go before you end up catching it.”
“I never catch anything,” he said, shrugging. “You know that.”
Scowling at him, she busied herself with refilling her ginger ale, all the while searching for the bottle that had started the whole thing. She had snapped at Dash and told him to mind his own business.
He’d laughed and told her she should learn to be less obvious.
She’d grabbed the bottle. He’d asked if he could get a drink.
She’d told him to go ahead and he’d popped open a bottle of the beer she had in the fridge—it was a local brew and strong.