The last of the day’s light slanted in through the restaurant windows, slicing at his brain. The laughter and music around him might as well have been a herd of elephants. Lowering his ever-present baseball cap farther over his eyes, he left their private dining room, walking on shaky legs down the hallway in the opposite direction of the party, needing a quiet place where he could crawl into a ball and wait it out.
He found a small office masquerading as a coatroom, or so he supposed by the layers and layers of jackets and sweaters and other various outer gear on every single available surface. There were a few chairs and a love seat. It would have to do. He was halfway through clearing the love seat when the nausea hit him.
He got lucky that there was a bathroom attached to the office. He was entirely too large for the postage-stamp-size room, but comfort was a distant need behind the waves and waves of pain rolling over him. As always when hit with a massive migraine, he was nearly blinded by it, and he was struck deaf and dumb as well. All he could do was turn off the light, lie on the cold linoleum floor, and pray for a quick finish.
He wasn’t lucky enough for that.
It might have been only minutes or an entire year later when he heard someone open the bathroom door. The light came on, which was like being stabbed with lightning bolts. With a groan, Grif squeezed his eyes shut. “Off,” he managed.
“Griffin!”
Mercifully, this was followed by the light going off. Next came the wince-inducing click, click, click of Kate’s heels, and her soft, warm hand brushing his forehead. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Shh.”
He heard the rustle of her clothing as she crouched at his side. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
Nope. Just sick as a dog, and if she didn’t zip it, she was going to see just how sick firsthand. That would suck. So did the fact that he couldn’t even open his eyes and see how sexy she looked with that sweater hugging her curves. He couldn’t even steal a peek up her skirt—which killed him because this wasn’t her usual cargo teacher skirt. Nope, this baby was short, black, and slinky. Reaching out, he clamped a hand over her wrist, halting her from patting his body, trying to find where he was hurt. Or so he assumed. Maybe she was into copping feels of sick guys.
“Griffin.” She sounded so worried, which he had to admit was kind of nice. “You’re shaking.”
Yes, and sweating, too, and utterly incapable of functioning, thank you very much. But he forced his eyes to slit open. “Just a headache.”
She stared at him. “It’s more than a headache. Is it your . . . injury?” she whispered, saying the word like it was a state secret since she knew he didn’t want to talk about it.
Christ, she was sweet. The sweetest person he’d ever known. Holly was right. She was way too sweet for the likes of him. “I’ll be okay.”
“Griffin, you’re flat on your back and so pale your skin’s see-through.”
“I’m fine.”
She made an annoyed sound. “Of course you are. You’re a guy. Has this happened before? How do you treat it?”
“Sex.”
“What?”
He shouldn’t be teasing her when he couldn’t even lift his own head, but he couldn’t seem to temper himself around her. He wondered if this was what it was like for her when she let loose with those science facts of hers. “Yeah,” he said. “Down and dirty, no-holds-barred sex. Cures me every time.”
“You’re kidding.”
Unfortunately, he couldn’t have pleased her right now to save his life. And wasn’t that just the bitch of it.
“I’m going to get Adam,” she said, calm and sure, and started to rise.
He tightened his grip on her wrist. “No, don’t. It’s his night.”
Her hands went to his chest. They were small but strong and sure, and he loved the feel of them on him. Too much. And he began to revise what he might be able to accomplish with a migraine.
“It’s his best friend lying on the floor,” Kate said. “He’d want to help.”
“No.”
“Fine.” She shifted, and her clothing rustled again. Unable to beat back the curiosity, he slit his eyes open in time to see her shimmying her pencil skirt higher on her thighs. When he shifted to take in the delicious flash of thigh-high stockings, the movement penetrated his skull, giving him a stab of such fierce, icy pain, he gasped with it. Oh Christ. He’d been afraid he was going to die on this bathroom floor, but suddenly he was afraid he wasn’t going to die.
Kate had lowered herself to the tile and now gently cradled his head in her lap. “Better?” she murmured, stroking her cool hands on his overheated temples.
Her touch was like heaven, and he heard a moan. His.
“Oh, you poor, stupidly stubborn man,” she whispered softly, and gently massaged his scalp and temples until he wanted to whimper with relief.
She didn’t push him to talk or try to get him up; she just ran those fingers over him until he was certain he wasn’t going to be sick again.
“Okay,” he finally managed to say. He was going to get up. “We’re even now.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re pretending last night didn’t happen, and I’m going to pretend tonight didn’t happen.” Leaving his eyes closed, he slowly sat up.
She said nothing until he managed to very carefully look at her.
“If you won’t let me call anyone for you,” she said. “I’m going to help you home.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Really? Because you can’t even open your eyes all the way, Big Alpha Man. How the hell do you think you can drive?”
“You talk to your students in that tone?”
“When they’re acting like little idiots,” she said.
If he could have sighed without feeling like his head was going to fall off, he would have. He didn’t want to talk about his migraine or why he got them. He just wanted to be in his bed.
She reached for his hand.
“Kate—”
“Shh. Just a little pressure,” she said, and began a slow, steady pinch to the skin between his thumb and forefinger. “Acupressure,” she said, holding him like that for a long moment before slowly releasing him. “Better?”
He had to think about it. No, his head still wanted to come off his shoulders, but he no longer felt like he was going to throw up. Progress.
“I used to do this for my dad’s migraines,” she said. “They started after my mom died. At first he had his pain meds, but then he got too attached to them.” She paused. “Way too attached. So when he had to learn to go without, I did this to help him.”
“Did it work?”
“On the pain, yes. On keeping him off the pills? No.”
He knew her father was a recovering addict. Knew also how much of his life Kate had taken over so he didn’t lose everything. Grif wondered at the strength of her, giving up her life for her family, something he’d never had to do. His own father hadn’t fallen apart when his mom had left. Nor when she’d died. Donald Reid had simply shouldered the grief and gone on. It was what the Reid family did.
Go on.
He rolled to his hands and knees and stilled, taking stock. Before he could stagger to his feet on his own, Kate put a shoulder beneath his armpit and shoved.She was maybe 120 pounds soaking wet, and yet she managed to get him upright.
“Okay?” she asked very quietly, her arms around him, holding him steady.
He paused, considered throwing up again, but managed to hold it together. What he couldn’t do was talk. Thankfully, she got that and steered him to the door.
She took him out the back way of the restaurant, something else he’d have to be grateful for later, because it was taking all his concentration not to whimper like a baby.
Just before she opened the back door, she stopped and fiddled with her purse. Then she was putting something over his eyes.
Sunglasses.
“Come on,” she said softly but matter-of-factly. Calm. She led him straight to the ranch truck he’d appropriated from his dad’s fleet. He leaned against the side and tried to figure out how to tell her that he probably couldn’t drive without killing them both.
That’s when he felt her hand in his front pants pocket. Not much shocked him, but her questing fingers came close.
She made a sound of frustration.
An inch to the left, babe, and you’ll have all you could ever want . . .
But then she retracted her hand and . . . shoved it into his other front pocket. “There,” she said, pilfering his keys right off his person, leaving him hard on top of being in excruciating pain—quite the feat.
“Watch your head,” she murmured, and he squinted his eyes open to see that she’d unlocked the truck and wanted him to get into the passenger seat.
And that, according to his reflection in the window, he was wearing neon green sunglasses.
Nice.
With that same calm, matter-of-fact air, Kate got him seated, and then she leaned over him to fasten his seat belt. Her hair tickled his nose, as did her scent, but he kept his eyes closed.
He must have drifted off because the next thing he knew he was jerking awake when a hand stroked lightly over his arm.
Kate had driven him home. She stood in the open passenger door of the truck, watching him far too carefully for his comfort. He slid out of the vehicle and walked into the ranch house, heading straight down the hall to his bedroom. He kicked off his shoes and stripped in two seconds flat, then stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes, sighing at the blissful silence.
A few seconds later he felt someone come into the room, but he was unable to bring himself to care. He was shivering a little bit, which was par for the course. His body had a hell of a time regulating his own temperature when he got like this.
A blanket was pulled up over him. His head was burning up, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything about that either.
A minute later a cold wet washcloth was set against his forehead, and though he hadn’t cried in years, he actually nearly lost it then in sheer relief.
“I called Adam,” Kate said softly, stroking his hair off his forehead. “Before you get all butt-hurt about that, you have to know I can’t leave you alone like this.”
“It’s his f**king wedding rehearsal, Kate.”
“Dinner’s over and he’s on his way.”
He’d have to kill her later because the nausea was back. He couldn’t move without throwing up, and he’d sell his soul to the devil himself before doing that in front of her.
* * *
Kate was alternately pacing the living room and standing in the doorway to Griffin’s bedroom, straining to see his chest rising and falling, when she heard a truck drive up.
Adam, she thought hopefully.
But it wasn’t. It was Donald Reid. He looked surprised to see her standing in his house, and she quickly told him about Griffin’s migraine.
“Huh,” he said, and headed in the opposite direction.
“Wait. Aren’t you going to check on him?”
Donald turned back. “Didn’t you check on him?”
“Well, yes. Of course.”
Donald nodded and kept going. “No worries, his head is hard enough; he’ll get past this.”
Kate was still standing there in shock when she heard another truck. This time it was Adam. He strode into the house, nodded at her, and went straight down the hall.
Toward Griffin’s room, she noted in relief.
Unable to help herself, she followed, staying in the doorway as Adam entered Griffin’s room. The two men spoke so quietly that she couldn’t hear a damn thing.
A few minutes later, Adam came out and met her in the hallway. He tugged on a strand of her hair. “Looking a little rough, cutie.”
“Forget me,” she said. “What about Griffin? Is he okay? What’s wrong? Has he always gotten migraines like this, or is it from his injury?”
He gave her a second look. “What do you know of his injury?”
“Absolutely zip.”
Adam nodded but said nothing.
God save her from alpha men. “Tell me,” she said. “I’ve seen his scar.”
And she’d seen a lot more than that earlier when he’d stripped out of his clothes without a thought; there wasn’t a self-conscious bone in his body. And now that she’d seen it all—every inch—she could say with certainty that he had absolutely nothing to be self-conscious about, because the promise he made in clothes was absolutely kept without them.
“He was injured in a blast,” Adam said. “He sustained a head trauma, a closed head injury. It left him with ringing ears, headaches, light sensitivity, fatigue . . .”
“And talkative friends.”
Both Adam and Kate froze at Griffin’s rough, low, irritated voice coming from the bedroom.
“I’m fine,” Grif said. “Or I will be. So unless one of you is going to get na**d and offer up sex, get the hell out.”
“I did offer it up,” Kate said. “You weren’t interested, remember?”
Adam’s brows shot up so fast and far that they vanished under his hairline.
Griffin said nothing, but she could feel his annoyance coming in loud and clear.
“Explain,” Adam said.
Griffin said nothing, apparently pleading the Fifth.
And Kate would explain over her own dead body. She shouldn’t have said anything at all; she hadn’t meant to. But once again her mouth had spoken without permission. “Having sex is three times more effective as a pain reflector than a morphine dose.” Dammit! She closed her mouth and then put her hand over it just in case.