I force my eyes to his face. He's close. So close I can see the molten blue in his liquid-steel eyes.
"Breathe with me," he says firmly. "In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. Can you do that?"
I nod, even though I'm not sure I can.
"In." He demonstrates, and I try to follow. "Two, three, four. Hold. Two, three, four. Out. Two, three, four."
It takes three cycles before my breathing starts to even out. Five before the tightness in my chest begins to ease.
"That's it," he says, his voice gentler now. "You're okay. You're safe."
"I'm sorry," I whisper. “As you saw from that first flight to Vegas, I’m not really good on planes, and I?—"
"This isn't about the plane."
"What?"
"This is about whatever you've been carrying around for the past two weeks that you think you have to handle alone." His thumbs stroke over my knuckles. "Talk to me."
For once, I don’t have the energy to tell a single lie.
I’m tired—exhausted is more like it.
And though, my thoughts are racing and my palms are sweaty, I just can’t stay silent a second longer.
“It’s my dad,” I blurt out, the words sluggish on my tongue. “He’s sick. Parkinson’s, actually. He was diagnosed eight months ago, and the medications are expensive, and the medical bills are—" I stop, swallowing hard. "I'm helping with costs. That's why I took the StreamEats job. That's why I needed the stability."
Victor's face goes very still. "How long have you known?"
"Since March. Right before my divorce proceedings started speeding up.”
"And you've been dealing with this alone?"
"My sisters know, but they don’t know how bad it is. Besides, they have their own lives. Margot's a nurse. She has kids and a family to take care of. Amelia's getting married. I have the least on my plate. And it’s my job to?—"
"It's not your job to carry this by yourself. Christ, Harper. Why didn't you tell me?"
The tension, the secrets, that have been simmering inside for weeks—Hell, months—bubble over, bursting out of me now.
"Because this—this arrangement, us—it’s not real. My problems are.” I scoff. “And the last thing I’m sure you need right now are more problems."
He stares, eyes heated enough to burn. “Your problems are my problems, Beaumont. And I want to hear everything." He stands, pulling me up with him. "Come here."
Before I can argue, he sits back down and pulls me into his lap.
"Victor, we're on a plane?—"
"I don't care. You need this. I need this." His corded, muscular arms wrap around me, solid and warm. "Now talk to me. Tell me what's really going on."
And God help me, I almost do.
I almost tell him about FoodFirst. About Vanessa's emails. About the impossible choice between my father’s medical bills, my life after divorce, my career, and my integrity.
But then he says, "I'm glad you told me. We'll figure this out together."
Together.
Like we're a team. Like this is real.
