“Um,” I said again. Nine years as New York’s best executive assistant, and I couldn’t even talk. The pain was lancing down the back of my skull to the back of my neck, and forward where it throbbed behind my eyes. I closed my eyes, feeling his competent hand on me, keeping my balance. “Migraine,” I managed.
“Jesus,” he said softly. His arm came around my waist and he gently held me up as he led me to the bedroom. “It looks fucking awful.”
“I’m okay,” I said, which was a pathetic joke. I was not okay. I was a mess, and it was happening in front of my favorite boss, the one I wanted to impress, the one I was attracted to. It was so humiliating. “I don’t want to throw up,” I said, the words unbearably loud inside my skull.
“Lie down,” Aidan said, his voice low. I crawled gratefully between the cool sheets and he pulled the covers over me. He went into the bathroom, where I heard the water run. Then he came back and put a cool towel on my forehead. It was only a few degrees of relief, but I sighed.
He moved around again, this time adjusting the dark curtains and the lights. The world stopped spinning so hard. I pulled the cool towel over my eyes, partly for relief and partly so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “The meeting,” I said.
“You’re not going to the meeting.” His voice was deliberately soft. He came back to the bed and put his hand on the side of my neck. “How often do you get these?”
“A few times a year.” I nearly whispered it. His hand felt so good. He smelled so good. I wanted him to crawl in bed with me, suit and tie and all, and lie here with me. I would feel better if he did that. I always dealt with my migraines alone. “I don’t know what brought it on.”
“Could have been anything.” His hand—so warm and strong—moved to the back of my neck and his fingers pressed gently there, moving at the base of my skull. “Does this help?”
For a moment the pain pulled back a little, like a wave at the beach, and I moaned.
His fingers paused. “Samantha, I don’t know if that’s a good moan or a bad moan.”
Even through the pain, I felt a pulse of heat between my legs when he said that. “It’s a good moan,” I managed weakly. Oh, God, we were talking about me moaning. He had most likely seen my panties and my nipples through my shirt when I opened the door. I’d never wanted him to see me weak like this. “I’m so embarrassed,” I whispered.
“Don’t be.” His fingers moved again. It wasn’t complete relief, but made the pain recede just a little. “How long will it last?”
“An hour our two.” I hoped.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“I need quiet. The maids…”
“They won’t come. I’ll make sure of it. Are there any drugs you can take?”
I’d been through this with my doctor. Nothing worked. “No. I just have to wait.”
&nbs
p; He kept the massage up, bless him. It was faint relief, but it was relief. “I don’t know what to say,” he said after a moment. “Think of something pleasant, maybe. Something that makes you happy.”
My answer was immediate, even through the pain. “Paris.”
“Paris is your happy place?”
“Yes. I’ve wanted to go there for as long as I can remember. I feel like if I was there, I’d be…different.” I sighed. The pain was making me stumble to find the right words. “I feel like I could be someone better there. Someone who could live a great life. Which is crazy for a place I’ve never been to. It’s hard to explain.”
“No, I get it,” Aidan said, his fingers still blessedly moving. “Sometimes you glimpse what life could be like. It isn’t that the life you have is bad. It’s just that certain places are like looking through a window into what could be.”
That was exactly it. Exactly. I felt like crying for a moment—the pain was making my emotions go crazy. “Yes,” I managed. “That’s it.”
“If you feel that strongly about Paris, then you’re probably right about it.” He didn’t seem to notice I was near tears.
“Maybe.” I sighed. “What’s your happy place?”
Aidan laughed softly. “Probably the Met. Not quite as exotic as Paris, I know. But I live near it, and I go as often as I can.”
“You do?” I’d kept Aidan’s schedule for months, and there had never been mention of the big museum on the edge of Central Park. I’d only been there a few times myself.
“Do you want to know a secret?” Aidan said. “Everyone wants to know what I do in my spare time. They think I should be snorting drugs or flying jet planes or fucking models. But usually, in my off hours, I’m looking at art. I don’t know why. I’m not artistic in the least. I have no talent myself. But looking at art makes me happy. Art, for me, is that thing that shows me what life could be.”
I let his words wash over me as his fingers rubbed my neck. How was he so stupidly perfect? “That’s lovely,” I managed. Then the pain seized the top of my skull like a pincer, and I winced, my hands gripping the coverlet.