Page 77 of Someone to Have
“Paper bag,” he says. “Breathe into it.”
I want to tell him it won’t help, but I reach for it anyway. He wraps his giant hand around mine, holding the bag steady as I breathe in and out, in and out.
“I can’t believe you, Tinkerbell.”
I try to focus on his words. Is he really going to give me shit in this state? I deserve it but?—
“You didn’t warn me that Mrs. Simon is an oversexed Golden Girl. I’m pretty sure she tried to cop a feel when I was chopping the avocados. Just about sliced my thumb off. I needed your protection, Tink.”
I choke out a laugh around my labored breaths. “I can’t protect anyone.”
“The hell you can’t.”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” he interrupts, and then he just sits there with me, his palm warm as it traces circles on the middle of my back. His body radiates heat like he’s my personal furnace, and I can feel him controlling his breathing so I can regulate mine to his rhythm. It works, eventually.
I pull the paper bag away from my face and wipe a hand across my cheeks. “I’m through the worst of it.”
“What can I do?”
“You’ve already done so much. And I owe you an ap?—”
“You don’t owe me shit. Well, other than helping keep Mrs. Simon’s handsy hands to herself. Thank Christ she only wanted me for my food and the leftovers.”
I laugh softly. “Myleftovers.”
“I saved some. Let me bring you a plate.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure Rhett needs?—”
“Rhett is in his room playing video games with some buddies from the team.”
I smile. “I like that he has buddies.”
“Me too.”
“Are you going to let me apologize for the fuckboy comment?” I ask quietly. “You have to know I didn’t mean it.”
“I know. You can tell me how sorry you are later.” He wraps his free hand under my knees. “Right now, we need to take care of you.”
“Stop,” I protest, even as my fingers curl around his shoulders. “You can’t pick me up from the floor.”
“Watch me.”
“You’ll throw out your back. I’m not exactly tiny.” Which is a redundant thing to point out to a man who’s seen you naked.
“You’re the perfect size.” He stands as if I weigh nothing, his strong arms holding me steady before he sets me on the couch. “Let me bring you dinner. Food will help.”
Now that the panic is receding, I do feel hungry. Hungry and alittle hollow. “I need to shower first. The panic attacks leave me a sweaty mess.”
“I’d prefer to make you a sweaty mess myself,” he says, completely serious. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. What am I supposed to say? I think I’m falling in love with you, and it’s freaking me out.
“Was it rehearsals?”
I arch a brow.
