Page 56 of Because of Dylan

We’re sitting shoulder to shoulder.

He moves and puts an arm around me. “You’re safe.”

Of all the things he could have said, this is what I needed to hear most.

He tugs me closer. “Shhhhh, it’s okay. It will be okay.”

His presence, his scent, his voice, the heat of his body pressed against mine—all of it seeps into me layer by layer, slowly breaking into my panic attack and dragging me out of it.

His touch, the gentle pressure, calms me down. I should be terrified right now. I should be terrified because I’m locked in a room with a man who could easily overpower me. And no one knows I’m here. And yet, I feel safe. Perhaps because he’s Tommy’s brother, and I trust Tommy. Perhaps because he never made me feel like an object to be used.

Whatever the reason, I’m glad he’s here to talk me off the ledge, to guide me back into reason. Relief washes over me like a tidal wave, slow to rise and then all at once. I shudder. He pulls me closer, tucks me into his chest. His chin rests on my head, and he makes soothing sounds while rubbing my back with one hand and my head with the other. The hum so quiet, it’s more of a flutter against my skin than a melody. Gentle fingers comb through my hair. I don’t resist. I don’t pull away. I wrap myself around him, nestle closer still. Allow myself to be in this moment, drinking in the heat of his body and the comfort of his embrace. Savor the safety of hands that mean no harm. I close my eyes.

Our breaths slow, his beating heart under my ear is strong and steady. Minutes pass. His hands slow until they just hold me.

I should move. I should stop this right now. But I stay. I don’t dare even speak. I don’t want to break away. I don’t want to burst this bubble. I’m in an alternate universe. I like it here. Time stands still inside his embrace.

Our phones vibrate. We don’t move. We stay. There are sounds now. Coming through the door. Steps, people talking. Movement outside. More messages on our phones. The sounds out in the hall get louder, dozens of voices. The outside coming in, breaking this—whatever this is.

His lips press against the top of my head. Not quite a kiss. He inhales deeply. I do the same and fill my lungs with his scent. I want to hold on to this moment, freeze time, and stay here. I crave his touch, the safety of his arms around me. I mourn the impending loss of his embrace. How can I yearn for something I never even knew I wanted?

He disengages from me. Pushes me back with tender hands. We touch no more but the physical sensations linger. My skin prickles under the intensity of his gaze. But coward that I am, I don’t meet his eyes. I look around instead.

I’ve never been in his office. It’s small. The walls painted sage green. There’s a dark wooden desk, a chocolate-brown leather chair and a bookcase behind us. The window lets the sunlight in. The rug under us is also dark brown. The space is masculine, austere even. But spotless. No dust, no empty bottles or old coffee cups. He gets up, standing in front of me. I stare at his shoes.

“Becca?”

I look up, his hand waits for mine. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet.

“You okay?” He bends his head, trying to catch my eyes.

I look up. “Yeah, thanks. I’m okay.” There’s no judgment. No inquisition. No coldness in his gaze or voice. And it’s like I’m seeing a different person. Or like I’m seeing him for the first time. Who’s this man standing in front of me? So cold one moment and so kind the next? What is he hiding behind the harsh façade?

I want to take a step closer to him, push into his chest and lock his arms around me again. Find that safe place I’ve craved my entire life.

I don’t recognize him or myself in this moment. We are two different people, pushed together by circumstance and playing a role neither is sure of.

It’s too much. I grab my backpack and cell phone from the floor. There are several messages. Some from the school with updates. They got the guy. The shooter. They have canceled classes. Students are advised to stay in their dorms or leave campus. There are messages from River and my father. And one from Tommy.

I look at him. “Tommy is okay.”

He looks at his own phone, and his eyes widen. “Jesus. Tommy! I forgot about him.”

He mouths the words, but I read his lips. The words are as clear to me as if he had said them out loud.

“What?” I try to catch his gaze, hold on to the magic a little longer.

His face goes distant. His shoulders straighten back, becoming rigid. Does he blame me for not thinking of Tommy?

He steps aside, moves the chair away from the door. Opens it.

“Miss Jones.” He gestures toward the hall.

Message received loud and clear. He wants me out. Whatever happened in this room is now gone. And I don’t think I’ll ever find it again.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“How could I forget Tommy?”My brother. My only family.

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