Instead, I throw up all over his boots. “I’m sorry,” I gasp, mortified. “I’m sorry. I’ve—I’ve been sick with worry—” And then, to my horror, I do it again. “Noah!” Grey calls, and there’s worry in his voice. His hands hold back my hair. “Oh yeah,” says Noah, and his voice isn’t concerned at all. If anything, he sounds amused. “About that.”
