Catching Sparks (Cherry Peak Book 2)

A weeklater and my ass and thighs still ache from that first time riding with Poppy. I’ve been practicing every day since, usually in the evenings once Wade’s slipped inside for dinner and Kip’s available. The stiffness that hardens my limbs the moment I get myself pulled up on his back always lingers for the initial few minutes but then fades to nothing by the time we’ve begun to really move. If only my muscles would begin to grow used to the new movements and stop making me feel so old. The recovery time is cruel.

I’m certain it doesn’t help that I can’t stand for longer than thirty seconds without feeling light-headed and tasting chalk either. My sinuses are congested to high heaven, the world around me sounding dull through the throb in my ears. Fire rips down my throat with every pathetic swallow, to the point I’ve started spitting on the dirt outside the stables to avoid feeling the pain.

It came out of nowhere. I went to bed last night feeling fine and woke this morning to . . . all this. Getting sick has never been a concern for me. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve fallen ill over the past few years, and even then, that’s being generous. It’s fitting that this fucking place would break that streak, as it has a habit of meddling in every other aspect of my life.

Johnny’s been mother henning me all day, following me around with a sick bag in his hand regardless of my lack of vomiting. He’s the one who blabbed to Eliza about me and had her rushing out of the house and toward the stables at the crack of dawn with a container of steaming chicken soup. I took it without complaint and drank the container dry, leaving only the chicken and vegetables left sitting on the bottom.