Though I was a neurotic hypochondriac, I had a rather high pain tolerance. I’d broken my arm once, and no one believed me because of the hypochondria, so I was forced to go to school for a week with a broken arm. And run our school’s cross-country race. I actually came in second, the one and only time I had run because it was forced upon me. My mother had felt sufficiently guilty, so that ended up being the one time in my life when she was kind to me for an extended period.

It took every single ounce of my willpower to grit my teeth against the agonizing pain in my head and face, clawing at the counter to get myself upright. The room spun, my vision blurred, and I felt like I might hurl all over my lovely quartz countertops. But after a few minutes—or maybe more than a few, who knew?—there was no vomit on my countertops, and my vision improved somewhat. Dark spots still danced around the room as I gripped the counter, using it to help me along to the cabinet above the fridge where all of my medicine was housed.

I fumbled with various bottles, cursing myself for being obsessed with health and wellness and swearing off most traditional painkillers.

Again, after a few minutes—that quite possibly could’ve been more—of my head feeling like it had grown three times its normal size while grabbing blindly at bottles, I found a bottle of Advil.

Tears running down my face, my hands shaking, I managed to spill some into my palm and retrieve a bottle of water from my fridge.

Then I spent the rest of the night lying on my sofa, staring at the ceiling, and willing the throbbing in my eye to go away.

On the plus side, I did not think about what an ass I’d made of myself with Rowan.

Every cloud, and all that.

Chapter Four

Recipe: Peanut Butter Cake with Double Chocolate Frosting (the Crisis Cake)

“I’m going to fucking kill him!” Fiona screamed when she walked through the door of the bakery.

I winced at the tenor of her tone which seemed to exacerbate the throbbing behind my eyes. That and the sunlight streaming through the windows. Usually, I adored the way the bakery was bathed in the morning sun… I’d lean against the counter, sipping my coffee, watching the way the light hit the magical space I’d created.

None of that today.

“It’s easy to buy a gun, right?” she scowled, dumping her purse on the counter, eyes zeroed in on the left side of my face. “A fact that we really hated and have been rallying against for the longest time, but something I am currently thankful for.”

“You don’t need to buy a gun,” I told her quickly, horrified.

“Right, we’ve got plenty of knives in the back,” she nodded once, heading in that direction. I snatched her arm before she could run into the kitchen and arm herself with a knife to do who knew what.