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“Dani, wait—”
I jerk my arm away from him. “Don’t touch me.”
I rush faster to beat the new steady stream of tears falling down my face.
I close the door and lock it as a hard sob wrecks my chest. I sit down on the toilet seat and hang my head in my hands, feeling every possible emotion flow out of me. Anger. Embarrassment. Love. All in the name of Fox Fitzpatrick. I could feel it in his kiss, too. The same insatiable lust for me as I’ve always had for him.
But none of it matters. Not like I thought it did.
I turn on the sink and fill my palms with cool water to submerge my face in. The icy burn twinges my cheeks. I wince as it runs along the gash, washing salty sweat through the tiny, open wounds between stitches. My skin pulses with each thump my heart makes. Any moment now, my skin will split open and everything will tumble free… or so it feels.
I put my hand on my chest to feel it and take a long, steady breath in. It’s an old theater trick a director taught me during my first TV job when I got nervous between takes. Put your hand on your heart and remember that it’s all just a machine in there. Machines can be studied and controlled. You’re the master of your machine, not the other way around. It’s silly and not very scientific, but I’ve always used it to calm my nerves when they start to take control of me.
I focus on my breathing for several minutes, but I feel no more in control of it than when I began.
That guy was a hack anyway. The show got canceled after three episodes.
I pat my face dry with a towel and step back out into the room.
The television is off. I don’t blame him, I guess. I wouldn’t want to look at me either after that.
I look for him, but he’s gone.
I don’t really blame him for that either.
