That's (Not Exactly) Amore by Tracey Bateman Page A

room and face Joe? At least I didn’t throw up all over his table. I’ve been in the bathroom awhile, but my stomach is still queasy and I don’t want to risk another sprint to the toilet. But I’m not expecting the knock at the door.
    “Yes?” I call, as if I don’t know who’s standing on the other side.
    “You okay?”
    “Yeah. Just embarrassed.”
    “Can I come in?”
    “It’s open. I didn’t have time to lock it.”
    He doesn’t hesitate. As soon as he steps inside, he yanks a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and wets them down. He hands them to me. “Your face is white as my apron.”
    I press the towels gratefully over my aching eyes. “Thanks.”
    “You ready for me to walk you home?” he asks softly. “Or should you take a cab? I’ll take you either way.” He steps back as I toss the paper towels into the garbage can.
    I’d love to bravely refuse his gesture of gallantry, as I’m sure Dancy or Tabby would do, but the words won’t leave my mouth. Besides, I’m too sick to see myself home. I need someone to take care of me. And why do girls always feel like they have to be so independent? God made us to enjoy a man’s strength. I just know He did. Otherwise, why would I enjoy it so much that Joe is concerned about me?
    I scan his strong face. Nose that takes up much of his face, but isn’t too big. Dark eyes that take in everything, including, apparently, the fact that I love raspberry swirl cheesecake and the look in my eyes when I’m suffering from a sick headache.
    “Thanks, Joe. I appreciate it. And I think the walk might do me good.”
    “Okay. The guys are locking up for me. So whenever you’re ready, we can go.”
    Minutes later, I’m walking side by side with Joe. It’s only around nine o’clock, so there are still a lot of people on the street. Even on Monday night. My head is swimming—and my stomach . . . Let’s just say I’m not a hundred percent sure I’m going to make it home without an encore of my performance in Nick’s ladies’ room.
    Joe slips his arm around my shoulders. “You doing okay?”
    “Not so good,” I say wryly. “I think maybe I should get a cab, Joe.”
    “Look, you come up to my place and wait this thing out.”
    “What? I couldn’t do that.”
    “You afraid of anything improper? Because let me tell you, a sick woman isn’t that much of a turn-on. Plus, you know I go to church.”
    Even in my condition, I can see the ridiculousness of his assumption. “I don’t think you’re going to try to make a move on me. I just don’t want to put you out.” Oh, but fire darts are shooting into my head and my stomach is getting sicker with each step. I stop midstep. “Okay, Joe. I’m begging you. Get me somewhere I can lie down. I think I’m dying.”
    “Come on,” he says. His tone is soothing, melodic. The streetlights and the lights from the store and restaurants are nearly blinding me. I close my eyes as he holds me close and leads me the few steps back to Nick’s place. Joe took over Nick’s apartment above the coffee shop when Nick moved to L.A.
    By the time we reach the steps, my vision has gone black and spotty and I’m having trouble forming coherent sentences.
    Joe shakes his head and sweeps me into his Popeye arms. “Am I too heavy?” I whisper, resting my head on his shoulder.
    “You’re a feather,” he whispers back. I know it’s not true, but I let him lie to me. I’m too sick to argue.
    My eyes flutter open to the sight of sunlight slipping through the shutters. It doesn’t take any time at all to remember where I am. Joe took care of me last night. He tucked me into his bed, and I remember a warm kiss to my forehead. And that’s all until this moment.
    I push back the covers—a lovely off-white with a pattern of little roses. One pant leg is up around my calf. I push it down and pad barefoot to the door. My insides are churning. Nerves. It’s my first time sleeping in a man’s bed with or without