“Ugh.” I throw my head back down on the pillow as the knocking continues and I register the pain in my skull. “Just great,” I mumble to myself.
I didn’t finish work until three a.m. and barely slept. Hunter refused to leave my thoughts. Hunter kissing, touching me, fighting for me. It freaked me out—it freaks me out—but I can’t help feeling a little excited. No one has ever fought for me like that. Once I smoothed things over with the boss, everything was fine. I regret snapping at Hunter but it’s for the best. It doesn’t matter how much I want him, I can’t afford for him to get to know me.
I flinch as my headache amplifies when I lift my head off the pillow. When I come to my feet, the world sways. “Just great.” A migraine. All I needed. I snatch my robe off the back of the door and throw it on before stumbling to the front door. I fling it open. “Yes?”
The woman holding a bunch of flowers looks startled. Either I’m a wreck or I just bit out my greeting. “Flower delivery.” She thrusts forward the beautiful bouquet of pink roses, forcing me to take them. I scowl.
Who would send me flowers? I hunt for a note but can’t see one. She puts a clipboard in front of me and I somehow juggle the roses and pen as I sign for them. My vision is blurry from the migraine so it’s a miracle I manage to write anything. I mumble a thanks, hand back the pen and retreat gratefully into my apartment.
Flinging the bouquet on the kitchen side, I stumble back to my bed, head swimming. I need painkillers. And fast.
“Shit.”
Nothing in my bedside drawer. Like an old woman, I stagger to the bathroom and discover nothing there either. I can’t believe I haven’t stocked up on more painkillers. I get migraines a lot and I’m normally so careful.
Could I make it to the chemist? I steady myself against the sink and eye my reflection. I look like death. I mean really look like death. The circles under my eyes make me seem like a skeleton. Even my usually golden skin looks pale.
With a shake of my head, I go back to bed, curled over because it’s too painful to stand. Maybe I can sleep it off. I close my eyes and beg the pain to recede. At some point, I drift but the agony is still there, stopping me from falling asleep completely. When I glance at the clock again, it’s ten a.m. This migraine isn’t shifting. I need to get to the chemist and I can’t afford a taxi. I’m not sure I even trust myself to stand.
Through my open bedroom door, I spy the roses waiting on the counter. Could they be from Hunter? His way of an apology perhaps? It doesn’t seem his style but I can’t think of anyone else who might send them. Perhaps my boss, Eddie, but that doesn’t sit right either. Too romantic and not fatherly enough. But how would Hunter even know where I live? Maybe one of the staff at the pub told him.
Nausea bubbles in my stomach and I’d cry from the pain if I didn’t think that would make it worse. I need those damned painkillers. I wrack my brains for how to get some but can’t think of anything. It doesn’t help my mind is fogged over and the world spins if I try to open my eyes.
Since moving to London, I’ve kept myself to myself. My ex and his friends proved to me no one wants to be friends with an ex porn star. I can’t really blame them. Who wants to be friends with some who fucked strangers for a living? And I left what’s remains of my family—one aunt—far behind long ago. So I have no one to go to.
My phone buzzes. I groan and regret the sound when it rattles my skull. I reach for my phone on the side and have to squint at the screen to see it through the blurring of my vision. Who knows?
“Jess?” Hunter’s deep voice sends shivers through me. Even with the migraine from hell, he turns me on.
“Hunter?”
“Jess? Is everything okay? You sound funny.”
I imagine him running a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed with concern. “Yeah, I… what can I do for you?”
“What’s going on, princess?”
“I’m… I’m not well,” I say feebly, feeling tears well.
“Are you in danger?”
“No, I just…”
“Give me ten minutes.”
“What? No!” I sit up and immediately fall back against the pillows with a moan.
“I’m coming over.”
“You can’t do that!” I protest, my voice hoarse.
“I can. You don’t sound good at all.”
“I’ll be fine.” I won’t. I feel like my head is going to explode. But I don’t need him knowing that and I sure don’t need him playing hero.
“I’m coming over.” His tone brokers no argument.
“Fine,” I huff. “The door is unlocked.”
“I’ll be there.”