“And such a gentleman.” Kristen leans closer, whispering to me like we’re very best girlfriends. “But not in the bedroom.”
A whimper puffs out of me. “You’re lying.”
She brushes her hair off her shoulder and twists her neck. The arch is deliberate. She wants me to see the faint bruise marking the tender skin near her ear. “Am I?”
Anyonebut her.
No.
No oneelse.
I can’t stand the thought of Sawyer touching anyone but me. Why was I so stupid? I turned him down. The fear of being hurt again pales in comparison to the torture of knowing his mouth was on her neck…or anyone else’s.
The restaurant door swings open.
Sawyer pauses in the entryway but raises a hand to hold off the waiter. He’s not supposed to be here.
He’s in the same jeans and button-up shirt he wore earlier at the markets, with a suede jacket thrown on and his hair combed so neat it’s a golden halo under the chandelier. His lips flatten when our eyes meet, but only for a second before his gaze shifts to Kristen.
Oh God.
I can’t see this.
If he kisses her in front of me…
I can’t.
I shoulder past Kristen and plunge into the crowd. So many faces blur. I choke on perfume and tears, and I know I’m creating a scene, but I palm through the sea of bodies and escape into the corridor. My heels click in an uneven staccato against the concrete floor as I hurry toward the first door I see. My shaking hand barely manages to turn the knob, but the door swings open, and the second it closes behind me, I break apart in ragged, hiccupping tears.
The door butts just enough ajar for a sliver of light to stretch into the room.
“Elsie?” Sawyer’s eyes sweep over me. “You okay?”
“I’m h-having”—I suck in a frantic gulp, but my lungs refuse to fill up—“a p–panic attack.”
His eyes are impossibly wide. “I’ve got no fuckin’ idea what to do.”
The door closes as I double over. I desperately don’t want to cry, but I can’t breathe. Frustration jerks every muscle too tight.
Strong arms wrap around me. “Come here.”
Of course I do.
Sawyer edges us through the moonlit darkness to a desk. Half sitting, half leaning, he drags me closer. I can’t avoid the warmth of his chest or that intoxicating smell of ocean and cologne whenI cling to him. It’s not the normal way I battle through a panic attack, but hugging him is perfect. I clutch at his button-up shirt and nuzzle the perfect spot in the crook of his neck until my breathing evens out.
He inches away, his chin dipping lower so he can get a look at me. “Feelin’ better?”
“Y-yes.” I try to force a smile, but it wobbles.
His fingers are gentle on my cheek. “You’re not foolin’ me with that fake smile, Elsie Hoskins. What’s got you so worked up?”
“Nothing.”
“You worried about hostin’ this thing?”
I refuse to admit the real reason why I’m so upset. “Yes.”
“Somethin’ else?” He squeezes me against his side. “Come on. I want to hear you speak up.”
