Page 33 of Match Me if You Can

“Getting ready for bed,” I point out, my tone dry.

He frowns, turns back to his phone, and I ignore the grumpy hockey player, start grabbing out my stuff—face wash and my skincare, dry shampoo and Moroccan oil to keep my hair smelling nice and the strands smooth and soft, hand cream, deodorant, lotion for the rest of my pertinent parts.

Yeah, I’m high maintenance.

But…armor.

When my clothes are in place and my makeup and hair are done up, I feel like myself, feel safe and protected and me.

So, expensive shoes and carefully-selected outfits and creams that will probably do nothing to help with aging, but that I still slather on nightly because all the influencers told me to do so.

And with that tiny bed and the grumpy hockey player sitting on its edge, I need all the armor I can get.

My temple starts throbbing again, but I just close my eyes for a second, breathe it away.

No time for migraines.

I yank out my pajamas, ask, “Bathroom?”

His head comes up, eyes narrowing when his gaze drops and he presumably takes in my arms full of all manner feminine hygiene products. But he doesn’t comment—just retains grumpy as he grunts and hitches his chin in the direction of the hall. “Left. Two doors down.”

“Right,” I say softly, temple throbbing again, but this time it’s paired with the edges of my vision hazing just the slightest bit.

Crap.

I shift my belongings, bend down and pick up my purse, knowing I’m going to have to give in and take the medicine before things get really bad. I hitch it over my shoulder and manage to not drop anything as I make my way out the door, turn to the left and count two doors down.

And yup, there’s the bathroom that five boys grew up sharing.

It’s been cleaned recently, I can see that much.

But it’s also been used by five—or well, four, since Oakes is staying at a hotel—brothers who apparently can’t be bothered to do simple things like put the caps on the tube of toothpaste or—blegh—flush the toilet.

I hit the lever, shove some of the hair gel and deodorants out of the way to give me space to work, and start my evening ablutions.

Clothes off. Pajamas on.

Makeup removed.

Teeth brushed and flossed.

But by the time I go to wash my face, my vision has hazed further, the throb in my temples becoming a vise around my forehead.

“Shit,” I mutter. I should have taken my medicine first.

I put down my travel-sized bottle of cleanser, reach for my purse, but like always when I’m in this situation, I get klutzy, knocking it to the floor, the contents exploding everywhere.

“Shit,” I say again, dropping to my knees and scrambling to pick everything up.

Unfortunately, that drop sends my head spinning further, my eyes tearing up, my vision blurring.

“Ow,” I groan right as there’s a knock on the door that ramps up my headache. “Hold on,” I manage to call, eyes clenched tight, hand outstretched as I search for my pain medicine, fingers just closing around the bottle when there’s another knock and the door swings open.

“What’s taking so long?” Ace snaps.

“Just give me a minute,” I say, trying not to wince. “I’m almost done.”

“Are you—?” His words cut off and I squint up at him standing on the threshold, watch the fury bleed from his face.