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Ben shifts on his feet, finally meeting my gaze, his expression sheepish.Oh, boy.I can’t wait to hearhowandwhyhe came up with this lie.
But first: coffee. And medicine.
I’m reminded of my need for both when what feels like a tiny elf with a not-so-tiny hammer smashes right into the center of my forehead. I lean on the railing and groan, squeezing my eyes closed.
A hand clasps my arm. I know it’s Ben’s because it’s not limp and boneless but warm and solid, holding me with just the right mix of strength and gentleness.
“Sadie? Are you okay?”
I wish his voice weren’t so tender. It would be far easier to stay angry with the man. I hazard a glance at him, then immediately wish I hadn’t. It would also be easier if his concerned blue eyes weren’t so dang attractive.
“I don’t feel great,” I admit, closing my eyes again. But I think that’s making it worse, so I force them open a crack and swallow, my mouth too full of saliva. “I need coffee and my headache meds and maybe some seasickness meds if you have any of those?”
“Of course,” Ben says. “Let’s get you downstairs. And, um, maybe find you some pants?”
I glance down, only just now realizing I’m still in my sleep shirt. Andonlymy sleep shirt. I left the room without changing first, fueled by my anger and my headache. Which means now I’m standing on deck in front of Ben and two men I’ve only just met, wearing a loose shirt that barely skims the tops of my thighs.
How is it that I can wear a bathing suit at a pool or beach and feel totally normal, but swap the bikini for a loose sleep shirt, even one that covers a lot more skin, and suddenly, I feel completely naked? I’m about to make this argument to Ben—why should I need pants if he can walk around without a shirt—but I don’t get the chance.
Instead, the boat rocks, my stomach rolls, and I barely manage to lean my head over the railing, throwing up into the ocean instead of all over Ben’s bare feet.
“I hate the sea,”I grumble through the darkness. A warm and heavy weight presses against my back, something that should bother me, since I normally hate being touched when I have a migraine.
When they hit, I want darkness.
I want quiet.
And I don’t want to be fussed over.
Yet, when fingertips drag a slow, rough path through my hair, the groan I make sounds more like a purr. I shamelessly whine when the fingers disappear for a moment, then sigh again when they return, rubbing softly and with the perfect amount of pressure.
Does it ease the sharp yet crushing ache at the top of my skull, between my eyes, and at my temples? No. But it adds a layer of pleasure, something to stave off the very worst of the pain.
I did not, as it turns out, get coffee or medicine in time to hold off the migraine, which hit me at full force just after I threw up overboard.
“I hate the sea, and I hate all sea creatures.”
“Even dolphins?” Ben asks in a voice barely above a whisper. I can feel his breath on my neck, and surprisingly, I don’t hate it. “They always look so happy.”
“Right now, yes—even dolphins. And I hate your yacht,” I say. “It’s too big.”
“Mmm,” Ben murmurs. Then, “That’s what she said.”
A bark of laughter escapes me, but then I gasp, sucking air through my teeth because laughter isnotthe best medicinewhen you have a migraine. I whimper, feeling my stomach pitch.
“Shhh,” Ben whispers, and somehow, it doesn’t sound irritating the way it should to be shushed. “I’m sorry. It’s hard not to be funny.”
“You’re not funny,” I tell him, my words coming out slow and thick like syrup as his magical fingers begin rubbing my head again. “But if you stop doing that, I’ll throw you off the boat as soon as I can stand up.”
“I thought you said I should call it a yacht, not a boat,” Ben says.
“I hate you,” I say through another whimper.
“I know, baby,” he says, and it shows how horrible my headache mixed with seasickness is that I don’t immediately tell him not to call me baby.
I also don’t question the fact that I’m in Ben’s bed with the lights off, or that one of his arms is wrapped around my waist, holding me to his chest while the other rubs my head.
Apparently, desperate times call for desperate willingness to let a man I don’t want to like hold me and rub my head.
