I’m dying.

Okay, I’m not actually dying, but it sure feels like it right now. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m well past my eyeballs with tasks to complete, and for the past few weeks, Knox has been hounding me like I’m on work release from prison or something. A slacker who’s going to skip out or steal from the till, perhaps.

To make matters worse, my migraines have been rearing their ugly head with a vengeance lately. Today’s, however, puts the others to shame. My head started to ache by ten this morning and only got worse from there. It’s a full-blown migraine now, and as my terrible luck would have it, I’m out of medicine to alleviate the incessant pain. I’ve already drawn the blinds in my office, cursing the fact that it faces east. Of course, today would be one of those typical sunny Florida days.

Knox has also emailed me no less than twenty times already with requests and criticism—heavy on the criticism, of course. There’s no way I can head home because I know that will add fuel to Knox’s fire. I’m certain he’d write me up and place it in my file to document that I was found slacking on the job.

I’m also starving and forgot my lunch at home, and I haven’t had time to place a food order. Heck, I barely had time to answer Becket’s earlier call, checking in on me.

A knock on my door has my head snapping up from where I’ve been attempting to concentrate on typing out a proposal. The same one I’ve been working on for over an hour because my head has developed a near-deafening pulse of its own.

“Please don’t be Knox,” I whimper to myself.

The door opens and I instantly slump with relief.

“Hey, hey, how’s my—” Becket stops short at the sight of me. Dropping the bag of takeout on my table, he circles my desk and grasps the arm of my desk chair to swivel it toward him. Bending at the knees, he reaches a hand out to tuck some of my hair behind my ear, his features etched with concern.

“Blue?”

“Migraine,” is all I manage to utter. I don’t normally get them but, when I do, it’s because I’m under extreme stress.

Immediately, Becket reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, square pill box. “Here, take these. They’re the natural, anti-inflammatory enzymes Pres swears by.”

He opens the tiny container he normally carries the pills in for when his throwing shoulder acts up. Plucking out two tablets, he hands me my water thermos perched on the far corner of my desk. I down them and pray for relief as quickly as possible.

Becket’s friend from college, Presley Hendrixson, is a naturopathic doctor and chiropractor. She helped me a great deal shortly after I moved here, with wellness supplements and vitamins. She and her husband are expecting their first baby soon, and Becket has far exceeded the threshold of excitement and preparation for the little one’s arrival.

Which is why, through squinty eyes, I question him wearily. “What are you wearing?”

As if just now recalling what he has strapped to the front of him—one of those soft baby carriers—his lips curl up in an easy grin. “I’m getting ready for the baby.” He announces this with such confidence and pride that I’d laugh if I knew it wouldn’t make my head hurt more than it currently does.

“I just installed the car seat in my SUV, too, so I’ll be ready for uncle duties.” He shakes his head with a grimace. “Man, that sucker was a bitch to figure out.”

I lean back farther in my chair, letting my eyes fall closed. Barely withholding a wince as a sharp, searing pain slices my skull, I reach up to massage my temples.

“Blue, you need to go home.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Without meaning to, I flinch, releasing a whimper at the sound of Knox’s voice in my doorway.

My eyes flash open and lock with Becket’s, and I instantly recognize the fierce protectiveness and a hint of anger within their depths. If I weren’t feeling like utter crap, I’d say something to get Becket to calm down and just leave me be.

Right now, however, that’s the least of my worries because I’m rapidly nearing the point where my migraine is inducing nausea.

“No need to draw out the big guns, there, Fun Police.” Becket moves around the desk to approach Knox, a friendly smile on his face as he prepares to pour on the charm and smooth talking he’s perfected over the years. He holds out a hand to Knox. “Becket Jones. Nice to meet you.”

When their handshake lasts a second or two longer than normal, I can’t help but wonder if the two of them did that typical let’s see who can squeeze the other’s hand harder thing.

“I was concerned about your employee here working so hard that she doesn’t have time for lunch. Not only that, but she’s battling a near-debilitating migraine now. The best thing for her is to head home and get some rest.” Becket peers over at me, and I offer a weak smile, attempting to get back to my task at hand and focus on the computer monitor.

“I hardly think a little headache warrants the need to leave work early.”

Please don’t push this, Becket, I beg silently. I know he means well, but I don’t want Knox’s backlash from it.

“Well, I think she’d be more productive if she were able to leave early and rest at home. Then she could get back to one hundred percent and tackle the immense workload you’ve saddled her with.”

Ouch. There’s no way Knox missed that little jab.

“Plus,” Becket lowers his voice conspiratorially, “I was discussing ad space at our stadium, and I have a connection who would offer it at a bargain price.”

A wave of nausea suddenly hits me with violent intensity, and I rear back in my chair, the bottom wheels sliding back from my desk. I rush past both men, praying I can make it to my restroom in time.

* * *

“You okay?”

Becket’s voice calls out from the other side of the door.

Leaning over the sink, I cup some water in my hand and rinse out my mouth yet again before I manage to force out a weak response.

“I’ll be right out.”

Paper towel in hand, I pat around the corners of my mouth and attempt to smooth down my hair. Exiting the restroom, I’m met by my best friend.

“You’re going home.” His tone brooks no argument.

A resigned sigh escapes me as I walk back to my desk. “I can’t and you know this.” With dread, I note that it’s only twelve thirty in the afternoon.

I can practically feel Becket bristling with irritation as he follows me and we both stop short at the sight of Knox, still standing in the doorway.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck before sliding both hands into the pockets of his dark, pinstriped suit pants. “You need to go home. You’re sick. Why don’t you just come in early or stay late tomorrow to make up for it?”

I falter, surprised by his offer. Surprised and…suspicious.

“Only if you agree to write that in a memo and we both sign it with a witness. Because I don’t want this to end up in my personal file as an unauthorized absence.”

Knox releases a laugh that sounds a bit surprised. “I’ll have my secretary draft it right now. Be back in two minutes.” With that, he exits, leaving me to stare numbly after him.

“Let’s get you packed up.” Becket redirects me and I start gathering my belongings and placing them in my briefcase.

He guides me around my desk, his palm at the base of my back. “We’ll get you settled in bed, and you’ll feel right as rain by morning.”

“Thanks, Beck.”

“Anything for my favorite girl.” He winks at me.

“Here we go.” Knox reappears with two papers and a pen in hand and walks over to my small table. “Just need your signature on both and one copy is yours.”

Becket reads it over before offering a short nod. With a quick scrawl of my signature and Becket’s as the designated witness, I stuff my copy inside my briefcase and mutter a subdued, “Thank you,” to Knox.

Becket offers the bag of takeout. “Here, man. Won’t be needing this since she’s so under the weather. Enjoy.”

Knox grasps it numbly, and Becket guides me out of my office, palm at my back protectively.

And once again, Becket saves me from Knox Montgomery.