She was extremely pale with a definite greenish cast to her otherwise perfectly beautiful face. “You don’t look so hot, Rachel.” “Whittie, I don’t feel too good, either. Oh, no.” She groaned piteously then turned and ran for the bathroom. Again. There were no customers in the shop at the moment, so he went down the hallway, found a washcloth in the bathroom cabinet, and wet it for her. She was bent over the bowl, heaving what little lunch she had left back up. She groaned in misery as she crouched there, holding her long, dark brown hair back in one hand. “Sweetie, why don’t I call Eli?” he asked as he handed her the cool, wet washcloth. She accepted it and looked up at him with pitiful, red-rimmed blue eyes. Blotting her face, she nodded as he brushed the top of his hand against her very warm brow and continued, “This is the third time you’ve been back here, and each time you come out looking worse. I’m not so sure this is morning sickness, and I’m getting a little worried about you.
