Chapter Thirteen

Y A N A

I stagger away from him, squealing as I land back on my seat. I watch in horror as Mikhail gags again, retching onto the table.

Did he . . . feel so grossed out about kissing me that he wants to throw up now?

Did my breath stink that bad?

I blow a strong gust of wind into my closed hand, trying to catch a weird smell, but I can only smell the mimosa. In my very valid opinion, my breath and my mouth are not puke-worthy.

And yet here is Mikhail, clutching his stomach and quietly heaving. The women who were checking him out earlier are now watching him with worry, and I just sit there with mixed feelings, thinking about helping him but smacking him upside the head at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles and goes back to retching immediately. “I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t mean to keep doing it. It’s not your fault or anything, it’s just. . . .”

He trails off when his gagging gets worse.

The sound is digging into my ears. My chest is tight with a mixture of embarrassment and