Page 11 of Fated Moons
“God, no.” She blinked. Dust bounced off her lashes and flowed like a river from her face to his fingertips.
The air she sucked in scorched her lungs, and she couldn’t get enough oxygen to stop her heart from racing wildly out of control. She remembered the lead actress in her senior year of high school having a panic attack ten minutes before curtain call. Oh, how she had wanted to cast a spell to make sure that poor girl couldn’t go onstage so she could take over as understudy. But she chose not to, and Amanda ended up watching from backstage.
“All right. But I believe he’s still in the lobby if you change your mind.” Jackson’s voice rumbled inside her, sending warm pulses through her body. The second she’d laid eyes on him in Paul Ricter’s office, her palms grew tacky with perspiration, and every erogenous zone she had went into overdrive. She’d found him attractive in pictures, but damn, in person, those bright-teal eyes would knock any woman out.
His wavy dark hair flowed to his shoulders. His scent, a mixture of orange with a splash of mint, filled her nostrils, making her even more dizzy when she stood in front of a dozen reporters, all of which she’d met before, while Paul and the top executives gave a statement about the film and the co-stars. She’d fielded a couple of questions, as did Jackson, but as soon as they ended the session, she made a beeline for a private corner to fall apart.
“This isn’t like me,” she muttered, not knowing why she needed to quantify her behavior. Or the damn dust. Once one journalist brought up the murder, the room had grown silent except for the rhythmic beating of two hearts.
Hers pounded wildly in her chest. But the second one that pulsed in unison with hers sent a shock wave through her bloodstream.
She knew she had to be the one to assure the press that the royals held no ill will toward Jackson and asked that everyone leave the past where it belonged.
That had been the moment terror gripped her skin like a million tiny needles penetrating her flesh.
She clutched her chest. Maybe she was having a heart attack at the ripe old age of twenty-eight.
“Look at me,” Jackson said softly. His touch was tender. Caring. Her pounding heart eased from her throat to the center of her chest.
Where it belonged.
The last thing she wanted to do was stare into his eyes, much less look at any inch of his taut frame. Having his hands on her was too much to bear. It was like being on the most exhilarating roller-coaster ride. Terrifying at first, but you knew once you got going, it would be the thrill of a lifetime.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
“You’ve had one of these before?”
She sucked in a breath, only to cough and gag on it. Shaking her head, she tried to fill her lungs, this time slowly.
“Trust me when I say it will pass. You just have to ride it out and be as calm as possible.”
“Because the great Jackson Ledger panics all the time.” Sarcasm had always been her go-to in private situations with family and close friends.
Jackson was neither.
He laughed. “I’m not great, and I used to have panic attacks all the time when I was younger and first starting out in this business.”
“Well, I’m not starting out, and I’ve…” She coughed as her lungs once again deflated, and a little fairy dust slipped out between her lips. She covered her mouth and stared at him with wide eyes.
“Now’s probably not a good time to ask about this stuff, is it?” He waved his hand through the dust, collecting it between his fingers. It soaked right into his skin.
“You can’t tell anyone about it,” she whispered. “Promise me.” Her chest tightened. Her pulse raged like a wild river.
“Don’t talk, just breathe.” He rested his index finger under her chin, tilting her head. “Like this.” He took in a slow, controlled breath, his warm exhale easing the tension in her face.
She gasped, catching his gaze, but soon relaxed as she mimicked his movements. Before she knew it, her breathing had returned to normal and the dust disappeared.
But not her pulse.
Nor her raging desire to shove her tongue between his luscious lips.
Now that wouldn’t be ladylike at all.
Fucking werewolves.
“Come on.” He stood, tugging at her hand. “Let’s get out of here.” He curled his fingers around her bicep.
“No one is telling me what to do or where to go.”
