“Scarlett, cut the crap. You’re obviously not fine.”
I yawned, something I did compulsively when I had a migraine, and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing my forehead with a wince. All this back and forth wasn’t helping. Sparring with Ryder took energy I did not have right now.
I felt him sit down beside me. “You’re freaking me out. Tell me what’s going on.”
I groaned miserably, giving in. “I have a migraine.”
“Like a headache?”
“Like a really bad headache.” A fresh wave of sharp pain stabbed at my temple as if to prove my point. “I’ve gotten them since I was little. This one’s a doozy.”
“Can you take anything for it?” His voice was steeped with concern.
“I have a prescription, but I think I waited too long to take it. Sometimes the meds make me nauseous, and I was trying to avoid getting sick on top of everything else. I didn’t count on this being the never-ending night from hell.” I gave up trying to hold myself upright and let my body sag against him.
He grunted in acknowledgment. “My mom has the occasional migraine. Do you get them a lot?”
“I don’t know about ‘a lot,’ but regularly, yes. They can be triggered by a lot of things: stress, lack of sleep, heat, hunger, my period.” I swallowed. “Bright lights.”
Ryder inhaled a breath, and his ensuing silence said it all—it didn’t get any brighter than the lights we baked under all day.
He placed a hand between my shoulder blades, soft and reassuring. “Where does it hurt?”
“Here,” I said, pointing to my forehead, and when he started massaging my temple, I let out a bone-shuddering moan and tipped over like a felled tree, ending up with my head nestled in his lap.
We sat in silence for a bit as his thumbs kneaded my brow, the stillness broken only by the summer song of the cicadas. “Why haven’t you told Nate? He wouldn’t want you to work when you’re in pain like this.”
“Tell Nate what, that I have a chronic condition triggered by fluorescent lights? Photosensitivity isn’t exactly considered an asset for an aspiring actress. This is my first big job, you know how important it is that I’m seen as easy to work with.” I let out another huge yawn. “I’m not telling Nate. And neither are you,” I added pointedly.
“First of all, I think we can drop the ‘aspiring’ label since last I checked, you’re starring in a major studio film.” Ryderrotated my head slightly in his lap so he had better access to my other temple, and I had to stop myself from keening.
“Yeah, well, not for long if I’m so high-maintenance that I let a stupid headache hold up production.”
“Are you kidding me? Scarlett, Nate’s not going tofireyou for being sick.”
“Well, we don’t need to test your theory,” I mumbled, then gurgled in pleasure when he started scratching my scalp. Whatever he was doing with his fingers was magic—I could actually feel the pain receding. And the vibration of his voice through his pant leg was so relaxing, it was lulling me to sleep.What kind of sorcery was this? Was he a headache whisperer?
“People get sick all the time. We can come back and reshoot this scene later. It’s not like it’s going well in there. Frankly, I think everyone would welcome the reprieve.” He sounded as weary as I was.
“Not me,” I said stubbornly. “I won’t be the one who causes a problem. A migraine is an invisible illness. I’ll push through it.”
He made a noise of disapproval. “To hell with that. What do you need?”
“Hmm?” I said feebly. I was so lost to the blissful relief of his touch, the gentle pressure of his fingers, that I could barely follow the thread of our conversation anymore. His thumbs dug into the base of my skull with such expert dexterity that I almost slithered off his lap. I belatedly realized that he was scratching my head in such a way as to protect the painstaking efforts of my hair team, and his attention to that particular detail was so endearing, it turned my insides to mush.
“What do you need to feel better?” he repeated.
“Oh. Sleep. Silence. A cold, dark room.” All things I decidedly didnothave access to at the moment. Also, I desperately needed him to continue this heavenly scratching until my headache dissipated or I died, preferably the latter. I couldn’t believe I’d been relying on prescription drugs all these years when all I really needed was a man with magic hands and a knack for reflexology. I felt betrayed by the entire medical establishment.
He stood abruptly, and I nearly sobbed from the loss of his touch. “I’m going to take care of this.”
“You can’t tell Nate,” I said urgently, trying to snag his sleeve but catching nothing but air.
“Uh-huh,” he answered and strode off briskly, already several steps away from me.
“Ryder! Stop,” I called weakly, but he’d already disappeared around the side of the building. I reluctantly peeled myself off the bench and staggered after him, longing for death.
When I arrived back on set, I spotted him in the corner, conferring privately with Nate.If he is ratting me out, with God as my witness, I will murder him in his sleep.
