Page 6 of When Sinners Rise
“No.” I wait for a second before turning around.
He nods at me, stands, and runs his hand through his blond hair. “You can come with me then. I’m meeting Willow at Maxwell’s for dinner.”
“I was just going to go back to the apartment and heat something up in the microwave,” I say, as he walks past me. “You don’t need to ruin your plans. I’ll go home and eat.”
“The entirety of that first sentence is problematic. And you, for reasons beyond my control, have become my problem. Decent lawyers don’t eat anything from a microwave.”
He gives me a pointed stare as he opens his office door, and I follow him along the corridor, watching a cleaner shift her trolley for him. “I’m not a lawyer,” I say under my breath.
“And you’re not likely to be if you don’t eat correctly.”
We remain in silence for the rest of the journey. He walks along the pavement as if he owns it, and I trail close behind, attempting to weave through the people who haven’t moved for me despite moving for him. The sight of man after man in the evening rush – tall, short, fat, thin – all barging close to me brings my anxiety front and centre. I try the calming techniques Willow’s yoga teacher talked about. I breathe slowly, pinching the base of my thumb to release some hormone she mentioned. It doesn’t work. I’m panicking again, letting that fear consume me.
I look left and right sharply and find myself backing up to a wall rather than following anymore. Landon disappears into the sea of suits and jackets and coats, and before I know what’s happening, I’m crouching on the floor and unable to pull in a deep breath. I keep squeezing my thumb, desperate for all this to go away. Horrible thoughts spiral in my mind, feeding off of my attack. The noises and screaming in my head drown out the street noise around me. Hands touch me – grab at me – everyone’s rushing and …
“Miri?” I look at the shoes in my eyeline and try to focus on the sound of his voice. His hand appears in front of me, two fingers beckoning lightly. “Up you get. It’s just me.” My gaze roams the hand, following up until I reach his face. He’s smiling for once in his life. “You’re okay.”
You’re okay. I repeat the words in my head, and the noise calms, dissolving into the early evening hubbub of London. My hand reaches out for his, and I let him pull me up.
He crooks his arm for me as if I’m supposed to thread mine through his. I shake my head in reply, feeling uneasy again. So, he starts walking, his hand behind my back to keep me level with him.
“You’re still having nightmares?” he asks. I nod but keep my eyes forward. “I hoped they would have subsided by now.”
No. And I’m afraid they never will.
We walk on, with him stopping traffic with a wave of his hand so we can cross the road. Everything’s so easy for men. The world moves for them or acknowledges their power by bowing and scraping. They’re so damn strong, too. He lifted me from the ground back there as if I was as light as air. What hope do we have against that? The only hope we’ve got is being brilliant or fierce. I’m not brilliant at anything.
Not yet, at least.
Arriving at a restaurant, he opens the door and ushers me in. I’m almost immediately hit by a swarm of more men leaving, all of them wearing suits and cheering about something. Landon’s arm goes out in front of me, blocking them from touching me.
The one up front backs off a foot. “Sorry, mate,” he says.
“You fucking will be,” Landon snaps. My eyes widen at his tone and language, and I shrink back into him. “Move for the young lady. Have some damn manners.”
All the men shift one by one, clearing a path for us to walk through, and the eventual sight of Willow makes me rush to take a seat.
“Oh, hello you,” she says. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Landon made me.”
She smiles and looks up at him as he takes off his suit jacket.
“He did, did he? Were you feeling fatherly?”
He frowns. “She said she was eating from a microwave.”
“Oh. Although, there are some very good meals these days.”
He pours himself a large glass of red wine, and then starts pouring me a small one. “I never want to hear that from your mouth again. Either of you.”
“You’re being a snob again,” she says.
“I’m entitled to it. The Sir soon to prefix my name suggests so.”
“So sure of yourself,” she says, smiling.
“With the amount of money I give to charity, you’re damn right I am.”
