Page 42 of Offside Angel

I squeeze my eyes closed and try to breathe.

I manage one shaky inhale when someone knocks on the door.

It’s Dante.

He’s here.

It’s over.

“Mira?” Taylor knocks again. “Open the door.”

I press a hand to my aching chest and blow out a breath. “Bathroom emergency.”

“No, you’re freaking out,” she counters. “Let me in.”

Taylor wants to help. Some part of me even wants her to help.

But another part of me doesn’t want anyone to see me like this. Taylor has always called me the logical, level-headed friend. I’m the one who counts drinks and orders Ubers and never lets her run off with men she just met who claim they know Prince William personally. I may not have an online presence or a couch, but I’m good in a crisis.

Or so she thought.

Now, she knows the truth. What happens when she sees the mess I really am? What if she decides I’m not worth all the trouble?

She sighs. “Mira, let me?—”

“No!” I drop my face in my hands. “I’m sorry. I just… Give me a second.”

She doesn’t say anything, so I assume she left. I wouldn’t blame her. I just yelled at her through the door of a public restroom after embarrassing her in front of a cafe full of people.

There’s a reason I’ve been a recluse for most of the last seven years: I’m a mess.

I’m trying to focus on my breathing, forcing air in and out of my tight lungs, when there’s another knock on the door.

“Mira?” Taylor calls through the door again.

I squeeze my eyes closed. I’m not ready. “Just a few more minutes. I’ll be out in?—”

“It’s Zane,” she says.

I don’t think. Don’t hesitate. I whip around and yank the door open, ready to curl against his chest and let him carry me out of here like the giant baby I clearly am.

Except, it isn’t Zane in front of me. It’s Taylor.

“I see where I rank.” She gives me a sad smile and holds out her phone. “I called him for you. He wants to talk.”

I wince in apology and take her phone. Then I close and lock the bathroom door before I answer with a shaky voice. “Hello?”

“You’ve got a thing for public bathrooms,” he murmurs.

His voice is warm and familiar and I let it wrap around me like a cozy blanket. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. You absolutely can. You’re Mira fucking McNeil.”

I snort. “It’s funny because… I’m not.”

“You are,” he growls. “You’re whoever you choose to be.”

If that’s true, right now, I’m choosing to be Katerina Costa. Right now, I’m every bit that scared little girl curled up in the corner, bleeding and crying.

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