He shook his head. “You don’t have to—”
She stepped up next to him and put a hand on his elbow, going into mission mode. “Come on. Stand up as much as you can manage, and I’ll help you to my car.”
He relented and slowly got to his feet but remained hunched over. She got a grip on his bicep and did her best to make sure he didn’t fall. He made soft, distressed sounds as she guided him to the passenger side of her car, like he was trying to hide how bad it actually hurt, and a pang of sympathy moved through her despite her annoyance. She managed to help him into the car and then grabbed an empty grocery bag from the back seat.
She dropped it in his lap. “All I ask is that if you need to throw up, use this.”
He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “Promise.”
She checked the road and then hurried to the driver’s side and got in the car. The streets weren’t too crazy tonight, but she typed University Medical Center into her phone to get the best route. They were in the Bywater neighborhood and only a few miles out from the hospital, but the narrow city streets could get clogged easily. The last thing she needed was to get caught in unexpected traffic somewhere.
Jasper remained hunched in the passenger seat, half-turned to the side, as she pulled onto the road and made her way to I-10. She was sweating now, too, and her fingers were tapping a four count on the steering wheel. She was probably supposed to talk to distract him. That was what people did in these situations, right? She’d seen those kinds of scenes in movies.
“This won’t take long,” she said, not looking his way. “Fifteen minutes tops. Maybe you just have food poisoning or something.”
“Right.”
“Or maybe your organs are going to explode.”
He made a choked sound, but then she realized he was laughing—or at least attempting to in between whatever pain he was dealing with. “Gee, doc, you really know how to delicately lay out my condition.”
“My sympathy meter for you is low right now.”
He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I know. I’m really sorry. Like really, epically sorry.”
“Whatever.”
A few seconds of silence passed and he looked over at her. “Can you keep talking? Even if it’s just to tell me what an ass I am. Anything to distract me from this stabbing pain.”
Keep talking. The plea made her throat want to close up, Jasper’s attention on her too intense. She could feel her tics ramping up. “I don’t know what else to say. Ask me something.”
“Favorite color.”
She wet her lips. “Blue.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Tate. Yours?”
“Deares.”
She turned to look at him. “Dearest? Like your mom is Mommy Dearest?”
He sniffed derisively. “It’s Deares without the T. And that’s an old joke, Hollyn Tate.”
“Not to me.” She felt the corners of her mouth hitch up a little. “Jasper Dearest. I sound like your 1950s wife calling you to come to the dinner table and eat your pot roast.”
Oh God, did I say that out loud? I just called myself his wife.
He snorted. “Too bad your name isn’t Hollyn Darling. We could get our own retro TV show.”
The tight feeling in her chest eased a little. “I’d have to learn to make pot roast.”
“Not a food blogger then, huh?” He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “What do you do? My money’s on CIA operative.”
She focused on his profile for a moment, which was oddly compelling, the slight bump in his nose somehow making him that much more interesting to look at—imperfectly handsome. She turned her attention back to the road. She didn’t need to be thinking about his nose or how handsome he was. Asshole, remember? “I do a lot of freelance writing, but not about food. Mostly about movies and entertainment.”
“I love movies. You like your job?”
“Mostly, but it’s a lot of scrambling. I’m hoping to find a full-time position one of these days. You know the magical kind that comes with insurance and a steady paycheck?”
“Jobs like that exist?” He shifted in his seat and let out a soft grunt of pain.
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“Fascinating.” He reached out and angled the air-conditioning vent toward him.
She took a breath, trying to settle into the rhythm of the conversation. “So you do coffee and improv.”
“Yeah. And I’m going to teach some classes at WorkAround.”
“On how to trash your coworkers?”
Jasper’s head turned her way again. “Ouch.”
She didn’t look over at him. No way was she apologizing. She needed to remember she was mad, that he’d been a jerk. Not get distracted by his hotness or his struggling-actor state.
“Look, Hollyn,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’m truly sorry. What you saw tonight…that isn’t the spirit of our show.” He paused and took a ragged breath, like the speech was a lot of work. “I made a mistake. The serial-killer thing naturally brought my mind to Andi, and I bet if you asked her, she wouldn’t have taken what I said seriously. When I talked to her, she made fun of her own obsession. She embraces her weirdness.”
“Right,” Hollyn said, jaw tightening. “So I should just be cool with being made fun of. I’m the one who’s too sensitive. Got it.”
“God, no,” he said with frustration. “I’m saying I was a dick to use you in the monologue, and I’m sorry. I didn’t know about your tics. I just thought you were annoyed with me.”
Her grip tightened on the steering wheel as she took the exit for Canal Street, and she inhaled a deep breath. “I’ve grown out of the worst of them but they flare up when I’m…nervous.”
She could feel him watching her, and her fingers tapped more quickly.
“So I made you nervous?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He frowned in her periphery. “Why?”
She rubbed her lips together, not liking this line of questioning at all. Because you were funny and boy beautiful and have the sexiest smirk. “I’m not great with new people.”
He shifted in the seat again. “Good thing I’m not new anymore. You can relax now.”
She glanced over. The guy looked like hell. Flushed and sweating. But his eyes had a little spark of invitation in them.