Honeymoon - James Patterson [55]
Cool it, O’Hara.
But honestly, I couldn’t. It was a weird feeling, and it immediately had me thinking about someone I used to know. A narcotics officer, a friend. He was a really good guy, a good cop. At least, he was until he made a fatal mistake. He foolishly sampled the goods and got addicted.
The lesson was hard to miss. Even after my shower I thought I could still smell Nora on my skin. I could still taste her. And all I could think about was how I wanted more of her. I didn’t know how I could stop myself.
“Here you go,” she said.
I gazed down at the big, fluffy western omelet she’d put in front of me. “Looks delicious.” And I was hungry, maybe because I’d burned off lunch back in the foyer.
I picked up my fork and took a bite. “Spectacular.”
She cocked her head. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you, Craig Reynolds.” Nora leaned over and ran a hand through my hair. “You want a beer, or something?”
“How about some water.” The last thing I needed was more alcohol.
She went to the cabinet for a glass while I continued on her omelet. Truth be told, it really was delicious.
“Can you stay the night?” she asked, returning with my water. “Please stay.”
The question surprised me, though it probably shouldn’t have. I started to look around the kitchen, all the more aware of whose house I was in. The place was professional-grade everything—beautiful, actually—top-drawer in every nook and cranny. Viking, Traulsen, Miele, Gaggia—the best brands in the world.
Nora glanced in the direction of the foyer. Her sundress was still lying on the marble floor.
“I think it’s a little late to be weirded out,” she said.
She was right, and I was about to admit as much—when my stomach suddenly felt very strange.
Chapter 73
“WHAT’S WRONG?” NORA ASKED.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Out of nowhere I’m starting to feel . . .”
Like I’m going to vomit all over the kitchen.
I sprung out of my chair and raced for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time. I dropped to my knees and heaved violently. Up came the omelet. Most of lunch as well.
“Craig, are you all right?” she asked from behind the bathroom door.
No, I wasn’t. I’d been hit by a tidal wave of nausea and I was reeling. My vision was blurred. All I could do was hold on tight and hope for it to pass.
If that cop from the cemetery could see me now.
“Craig? You’re scaring me.”
I was too busy retching to respond to anything she was saying. I was too dizzy and weak.
“Can I get you something?” she asked.
With my arms wrapped around the porcelain, I was faced with a horrible fear: what if this never passes? That’s how bad I felt, how awful and terrified.
“Craig, please say something.”
The next moment, however, it did pass. Oddly. Luckily. As fast as it came, it seemed to disappear. Just like that.
“I’m okay,” I said, as much surprised as relieved. “I’m okay now. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I lumbered over to the sink, rinsed my mouth, and splashed some cold water on my face. Again I was staring at myself in the mirror. It had to be food poisoning, right?
But there was no escaping another possibility—I was suffering from pure, unadulterated anxiety on the heels of having fucked up very badly. Simply put, the omelet didn’t mix very well with the huge and unforgiving pit in my stomach.
Jesus, O’Hara. Get a grip!
I returned to the kitchen and a very confused Nora. “You scared the hell out of me,” she said.
“Sorry. That was bizarre.” I struggled to offer up a believable explanation. “Maybe it was a bad egg.”
“Could be. Oh, I feel just terrible. Oh, Craig. You’re feeling better now, though?”
I nodded.
“You sure? Don’t try to be a hero.”
“Yes.”
“Now I’m the one really feeling awful,” she said. “You’ll never eat anything I cook for you again.”
“Don’t be silly, it wasn’t your fault.”
Her lower lip curled down. She seemed hurt and frightened. I went over and put my arms around her. “I’d kiss you but—”
She broke into a smile. “I think I can dig you up a toothbrush,” she said. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You agree to spend the night