Page 7 of Beckett the Bad Boy

Changing tactics, my inner tirade transforms into a polite plea for relief as another sharp pain pierces my temple.

Kennedy relieved a lot of my stress by agreeing to host the Chili Cook-Off at Hearthstone.

She even volunteered to find extra people to help me set up everything, since most of the lodge staff were busy with another event, yet these damn headaches keep plaguing me.

No matter what I do.

Tons of water and electrolyte-filled Gatorade have been sloshing around in my stomach. My only reward? Numerous visits to the bathroom to pee and a slight feeling of nausea.

I’ve worn my hair down—no efficient ponytail to tug on my sensitive scalp, not even a bobby pin to hold my hair back from my face.

And nothing.

All of my usual go-tos for defeating headaches have failed. Including hot showers, classical music, and the weird magical powers of drinking nasty Coke soda.

Which means it’s time to break out the ibuprofen and acetaminophen.

Something I avoid at all costs because I hate swallowing pills.

My brain shuts down, and the pill sits on my tongue, slowly dissolving into a gross flavor that makes me want to gag, because it takes me so long to trick my mind into swallowing.

I don’t know why I struggle so much, but it’s been a problem since I was a kid.

I remember the very first time my mom offered me a Tylenol when I was twelve years old and got my period. It took so long to swallow that I ended up crying out of embarrassment and irrational fear.

Oh, yeah, and don’t forget the painful cramps and headache!

“Suck it up, buttercup,” I scold myself and remove the travel-sized pill organizer from my purse. It holds my emergency stash of ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and an antihistamine for when allergies are kicking my butt.

Popping two pills in my mouth, I scream in my head,Swallow!, praying the firm directive will force my body to follow the command.

“Nice pep talk,” someone says from behind me.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

My shoulders slump as my eyes flutter shut in defeat. I donotneed a witness to my illogical response to swallowing pills. Especially notthiswitness.

Of the sexy firefighter variety.

What’s he doing here?

It’s his family’s lodge, but still… It's not like he lives or works here. Shouldn’t he be at the firehouse across town?

The pills slide under my tongue as I garble, “Hey, Beckett.”

“Are you alright?” He steps in front of me, and I frantically nod, sipping at the water bottle in my hand.

I shake my pill organizer in explanation of my nonverbal response and grit my teeth.

Swallow!

Swallow, or else!

Finally, the medicine works its way down my throat—score one for threats—and I chug the water to get rid of the awful taste in my mouth.

“I’m fine. Just a minor headache.”

“Are you sure? Seems more than that.”