Page 87 of Canadian Boyfriend

“I didn’t know you got migraines,” he said in response to my bald-faced lie. His face was all smushed up, and I wasn’t sure if it was from concern or from skepticism. Maybe I should have gone with food poisoning. I had been living with the dude for nine months, and I’d never had a migraine or even said a word about them, including that time Lauren had one.

“They’re… rare.” My weak tone must have convinced him, when really it was a reflection of my feeling like shit for lying to him—about the headache, but also about… everything.

For my penance, I had to go lie in his bedroom all afternoon while Diane knocked every couple of hours with cold compresses, ice water, and heartfelt expressions of concern.

I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I awakened to the feeling of a presence in the room.

“Hey, sorry.” He was standing in the doorway, and he was backlit by the hall light. “Just checking on you before I hit the hay,” he whispered.

So now my choices were to lie some more… or to lie some more. “I’m feeling better, thanks.” I pushed myself up on my elbows and reached for my phone on the nightstand. “What time is it?”

“Late. After midnight. I ended up having a little too much fun with Erik. I think it will be my turn for a headache tomorrow.” He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He came over and sat on the edge of my bed. “I was worried about you.”

Ha! He was drunk—he was slurring a little. “You didn’t drive home, did you?”

“Noooo. I took a cab. I’ll have to go get the Getaway Car tomorrow.” He snorted. “The Getaway Car got away from me.”

“I’m glad you had fun.”

“I’m sorry I had fun while you were here suffering.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re apologizing for having fun? Stop that.”

“Yeah, yeah, OK.”

“I’m glad you let loose. You never do that. If I’d been with you, you would have felt like you had to drive.”

“Mmm.” Suddenly his hand was in my hair. “You have pretty hair.”

I intended to laugh, but it came out more like a purr as his big, strong fingers found my scalp. “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, but I don’t see what one has to do with the other. I’m drunk. You have pretty hair. Both things are true.” He started massaging my scalp. “Does this help your head?”

“Yes,” I said, and I was going to hell. But then I told myselfit wasn’t technically a lie. My head felt better when he was massaging it than when he wasn’t.

I only let it go on a few minutes. He started listing to one side, leaning against the headboard.

“Go to bed,” I said.

“OK.” He sighed contentedly and curled up next to me.

“Not here!”

“Right.” He made the world’s least graceful dismount from the bed and stumbled toward the door. I prayed he wouldn’t wake his parents even as I chuckled at the prospect of fully grown Mike Martin being busted by his mother sneaking out of a girl’s room.

He paused in the doorway, the yellow light from the hallway glinting off his stupid dimple as he smiled. “I’m so glad you’re OK now.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

Wow. Mike Martin was a schmaltzy drunk. “Thanks,” I said again.

He smiled goofily. “Good night, Aurora Lake.”

19—HIGH STAKES

MIKE

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