“I can still smell my perfume.” Her voice was pitched high with panic.
That’s what this was. A panic attack. They were common enough with our guests—and Liam—that we were all experienced in handling them. Why would a scented postcard trigger a panic attack in Lennon? That question would have to wait until she was calm.
I grabbed her ankles, one in each hand, and gently positioned her legs so her knees were bent and her feet flat on the floor. “Press your feet into the floor andbreathe, honey. You’re safe. Can you feel me breathing? Breathe with me.”
I inhaled, silently counting to four, expanding my belly so she could feel it against her back. Held for two, then exhaled for six. Her breathing slowed slightly, but not enough. It was still too quick and shallow. I breathed again. Inhaled for four, held for two, exhaled for six. This time she matched me.
“Purse your lips like you’re whistling when you exhale, all right? Inhale through your nose. Tell me five things you see.”
“Um.” I felt her shift like she was trying to focus. “The braided rug. Green curtains. Black knots in the pine beams. Blue sky out the window. The bed.”
“That’s great, Lennon. You’re doing so good. Tell me four things you can touch.”
“Jeans.” She rubbed her palms over my denim-clad knees that were bracketing her. “The breeze from the open door.” Her feet wiggled. “My toes,” she said, and I chuckled softly. She leaned back against me. “You.”
“That’s right, honey. I’m right here. You’re safe. Nothing can hurt you here.” Who the fuck had slipped that postcard under the door? I pushed the question aside and focused on the woman in my arms. She needed me calm now, not murderous.
“Safe,” she repeated. Her head tipped back on my shoulder. “Safe.”
The next question would have been three things shesmelled, but considering it was a smell that triggered her panic attack in the first place, I thought better of it.
With her face right there, I couldn’t stop myself from pressing my lips to her damp temple. Not a kiss. A quick touch like I was taking her temperature with my mouth. Nothing more.
But then I did it again, and that was definitely a kiss.
She was over the worst of it now. A sheen of sweat glistened on her skin. Her legs trembled violently—the surge of adrenaline leaving her system—and I could feel her body tense as she tried to get her muscles under control. I cuddled her closer, giving her a safety net where she could fall apart.
“I’ve got you, Lennon. I’ve got you. It’s all right.”
With a whole-body shudder, she gave in. Big and violent, even her teeth rattled. I held on until it passed and she went limp against me. Still between my legs, she wiggled herself lower down my body and curled onto her side. I stretched out my legs and gave her my thigh for a pillow.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“Tired.” She yawned, and it triggered one of my own.
I sifted my fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her face. My fingertips followed the soft curve of her ear as I tucked her hair behind it, then continued to her jaw. I pressed two fingers there, testing. Her heartbeat had slowed, but it wasn’t completely back to normal yet.
“Are you taking my pulse?” She tilted her head just enough that she could side-eye me from my lap.
“Maybe.”
“Am I having a heart attack? I felt like I was dying.”
“Not a heart attack. A panic attack can feel like a heart attack, though. Have you ever had one before?”
“No, never. I don’t know why it happened now. The postcard surprised me, but it’s not like this was the first one. I don’t know why I reacted like that. It’s so stupid. I feel ridiculous.” She pressed her face into my thigh like she was trying to hide.
My gaze flicked to the postcard, and my brows pinched. “Sometimes a panic attack is triggered by a memory. Something—a smell, a sound—reminds your subconscious of a time when you weren’t safe. But sometimes panic attacks happen when we ignore the danger signs until our subconscious can’t take it anymore and we explode. It’s your brain’s way of telling you to stop gaslighting yourself.”
She snorted. “Faking a heart attack is my body’s way of warning me I’m in danger? Seems dumb. How am I supposed to run from danger if I feel like I’m having a heart attack?”
I laughed. “No one said a panic attack was a rational response.” I paused, then said carefully, “Tell me about the postcard.”
For a moment, she didn’t say anything as she fiddled with the fabric of my jeans. Then she sighed, pushed tosit up, and snagged the postcard from where it had landed two feet away. “Here.” She flicked it to me.
I studied the photograph of a field of wildflowers before flipping it over.
I DID IT FOR YOU
