Page 15 of Ruined Vows

A man’s got needs.

“You’re insufferable,” I bite out and shove my suitcase closed even though I know I’ll be bothered by the disorder inside all night. I grab the water bottle from the floor and go sit down on the chair. I vehemently unzip my bathroom bag and pull out my medications. One by one, I screw off the tops, shake pills into my hand, and down them.

“Jesus, Red,” Isaak says after I’ve finished and put the bag down. “You swallowing a whole medicine cabinet over there?”

I glare his way. “Please. Go ahead. Shame me for my medical conditions.”

He frowns. “What medical conditions?”

I zip the bag tight and stow it in the bottom compartment of the nightstand. “None of your business.”

“Actually, Red, it is my business. I need to know what’s happening if you start having a seizure on me or something.”

I heave out a big breath. “I’m not epileptic. It’s nothing like that.” I glare his way. “Could you put on a shirt?”

He grins at me. “Difficulty concentrating?”

“Do I need to remind you that I’m an engaged woman?”

“I thought you had an understanding.”

“Not so I can sleep with my meathead of a bodyguard.”

“Hey, hey,” he raises his hands. “I’m not like Moira’s personal protection officer. I know how to keep my hands off the merchandise. I’m not the one eyeing you like I want to devour you.”

I shoot up from where I’m sitting. “I am not eyeing you like I want to?—”

He chuckles, and I realize he’s trying to wind me up again. “Plus, you’re barely legal, Red.”

“You are such a bastard.” I grab a pillow and fling it at him with all the force of my frustration. “And I’m twenty-two, not eighteen.”

He easily deflects the pillow, which is even more infuriating.

“You were saying,” he says after a chuckle. “What are the pills for?”

I heave out another breath, trying to calm myself down. “Anxiety,” I finally seethe out through my teeth. “Not that being around you helps because you’reinfuriating.”

“I make you anxious?” he asks, surprised.

I suck in another breath and let it out. “Not really. You just piss me off. It’s everything else.” I wave my hands out in generalization. “I’m an anxious person.”

“Are those benzos then?” he asks, suddenly far too alert. Like he’s actually concerned. I don’t like it. It’s better when he’s the simpleton I’ve pinned him as. “I had some buddies hooked on those.”

“No. It’s just—” My jaw clenches, but I hold my head up. I’m done with that church mentality bullshit. I don’t have to be embarrassed about this stuff anymore. “I take antidepressants and beta blockers for my anxiety, some other pills for migraines, and Ambien when I have trouble sleeping. Plus a bunch of other vitamins and natural stuff that’s supposed to help with everything.”

“How often do you get migraines?”

I want to snap that it’s none of his business again but then remind myself it might be. “Around my period, and they pop up other times when I get really stressed. The medicine helps.”

“Any side effects I should know about?”

“No. Just if I don’t have them when I need them.”

“What happens then?”

My breath huffs out. God, I hate being put on the spot like this. I don’t talk to anyone in my real life about this. Just my therapist. In spite of how much work I’ve done about de-stigmatizing my feelings about mental health, I’ve apparently still got hang-ups. “I can get panicky and have trouble breathing. Sometimes, I have full-blown panic attacks. It’s not pretty.”

“What can I do if that happens?” He’s still being totally serious—like he was at the house—and it’s throwing me off.

---