Page 34 of Match Me if You Can

“I’m fine,” I grit out, even though my head is throbbing so hard I might puke. Ignoring it, I bring my hand—and the bottle of medicine—close to my side, hiding it from view. “I dropped something. Now get out.”

His brows drag together. “Seriously, princess,” he says, and the migraine must be making me delusional because he actually sounds concerned, “what the fuck are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I reply icily, gripping the bottle in my palm and managing to make it up to my feet, even though the motion makes me dizzier, increases the pain in my temples until I have to clench my teeth together and grip the edge of the vanity to stay upright. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I was bringing you a towel,” he says, setting a stack of them on the toilet.

Which is oddly nice for a grumpy hockey player, but I can’t really focus on that right now.

Not when my stomach is starting to churn, a full migraine imminent.

“Thanks,” I grit out.

“What’s wrong with you?” he mutters.

“Nothing.” I swallow hard so I don’t gag. “Thanks for the towel.”

He huffs out a breath, starts to turn away. “Whatev—” Then he freezes, looks back, face going scary as he shuts the door. “What’s in your hand?”

My nails dig into the bottle. “Nothing,” I say quickly, jerking my arm behind me.

“What the fuck—” He’s in my face in a second, fingers gripping my wrist firmly, turning my hand over, peeling open my fingers. “I’m paying you two million dollars to be a respectable fiancée, not a fucking drug addict.”

“I’m not⁠—”

But then he’s snagging the bottle from my hand. “I’ve fucked enough puck bunnies to know a prescription for oxy⁠—”

I wince and he immediately loosens his grip.

“I’m not holding you tightly,” he growls.

My knees buckle—and since he isn’t gripping me tightly—I slip from his grasp, drop back down to the rug.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His sharp voice is like a pair of cymbals crashing on either side of my head and I whimper, clamping my hands to my ears. “My medicine,” I whisper, and even that’s too loud.

“This isn’t—” He stops. “What’s sumatriptan?”

“Migraine,” I whisper, still too loud. “Need two pills,” I grind out. “Please.”

“What?”

“Please,” I say again.

There’s a long moment of quiet, me kneeling on the rug, Ace standing over me, his body almost blacked out as the edges of my vision close in. Then—thank God—he says, “Okay,” and I hear the pills rattle in the bottle as he opens it, shakes two out.

He presses them into my hand.

“Water?”

I nod and he lifts me with an arm around the middle, bringing me to the sink. The water turns on and then I feel him press at my lips, slit my eyes enough that I’m able to drink some water from his cupped hand.

The pills make it down, barely.

“What now?” he asks.

I start to shake my head, stop because that’s a fucking terrible idea. “I’m fine,” I say, gripping the counter. “I’ll just finish up and—” I reach for the bottle of face wash and nearly topple backward.