Page 67 of The Long Game

Beautiful, crooked hands that had been injured one too many times. Where was the signet ring he wore around his pinky?

The sound of my own breathing crystallized in my ears. The vacuum I’d been sucked in a moment ago, spitting me right out. This wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t the first time I found myself close to hyperventilating in this man’s arms. I hated it.

“Where the hell did you go to?” Cameron asked. And when I didn’t answer, his thumbs started tracing idle circles on the top of my hands. “How long have you been experiencing panic attacks?”

My spine stiffened. “I don’t—I—” Panic attacks? “That wasn’t a panic attack.” It couldn’t be.

Could it?

Cameron hummed deep in his throat, and I didn’t know whether it was in agreement or complaint. He released one of my hands and snagged the flattened pile of material from the wheel.

“Is it ruined?” I asked him, hating how my voice sounded.

He discarded it on the side. “It is, yeah.”

Of course it was.

After a long moment he said, his voice still gentle, his tone kind, his arms around me, “Darling?”

“Maybe you were right,” I admitted, not even bothering to care I was not moving out of his embrace. “Maybe that was a panic attack.”

“Okay,” he said quickly. “But I was going to say something else.”

“That this was as therapeutic as a kick on the shin?”

A low chuckle left him, and the sound felt different from every other time he’d chuckled before. “I was going to say that everyone in here is staring at us. And as much as I don’t really mind, we either move, or we’ll be everything everybody will be talking about tomorrow.”

My head snapped up. I looked around.

Cameron was right.

A flat tire.

A freaking flat tire.

I braced my hands on my hips, noticing the splatters of clay on my borrowed dungarees. Great. Yet another thing I’d have to throw at the giant pile of laundry I already had.

Here I thought that having to wash my underwear by hand and hang it out to dry on the antlers had been the lowest point this week. Of course not. There was the stupid panic attack I just had. Me storming off out of the barn before the pottery class finished. And now this. I glanced back at the tire and I shook my head. Pressure clamped down in the mouth of my stomach. I wondered if I was going to cry.

I patted my eyes. Dry. The notion of me still not able to figure out when the last time I’d shed a tear came back. A bitter laugh escaped my mouth.

Another one followed, because God, I was a mess. Before I knew what was happening, I was cackling at the dark sky above my head. I let out my frustration. Although it quickly turned into anger. Disbelief. Desperation. “Shit,” I heard myself breathe out with a humorless laugh. “Fuck.” The cackling died out. My eyes fell on the tire. I kicked it. “Screw you, you stupid goddamn flat fucking tire!”

“That escalated quickly.”

My whole body stilled. My back stiffened.

“Motherfucker,” I murmured. Because I never swore but I was allowing myself to have this one moment.

“Oh wow,” Cameron said, and I heard his steps coming closer. “Please don’t stop on my behalf. I’m rather enjoying this.”

I looked over my shoulder, finding him with the amused expression I expected from his tone. “Always happy to hear about how my misfortune amuses you.”

He sobered up. “It doesn’t,” he countered, his gaze going up and down my body. Swiftly but thoroughly enough to make me pause. His throat worked. “It’s you who amuses me, Adalyn. And I can’t even figure out exactly why. Which bothers me. And fascinates me.”

I shook my head. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Hell if I know, darling,” he said, kneeling down. He checkedthe tire and straightened back up. “I’ll drive you back to Lazy Elk, come on.”

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