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I swallow, tugging on the handles again, pushing back my panic. What will I do? Breathe, Beau. I turn, leaning against the door, feeling at my throat. It’s clogged. Panic. It’s coming. Just breathe.
I jump a mile when the glass bangs behind me, and I turn, finding Goldie on the other side. Relief. Jesus, it’s overwhelming. She unlocks the door and pushes it open for me, and I walk slowly and quietly past her, not fazed by her steel expression.
“Not at the opera tonight?” I ask as I come to a stop at the elevator, unable to hold back. I get nothing from her as she taps in the code, no look, no words.
The doors open, and I step inside, not for the first time wondering what the hell I’m doing. And not for the first time, I laugh at my own stupid question. That threatening panic attack was very real.
I ride up, pulling myself back together, settling, and when the doors open onto James’s glass box, I scan the space, searching for him. No James. I glance up the stairs, and the faint sounds of music reach my ears.
London Grammar. What a Way to Lose Your Head.
I swallow, the irony making my head spin, and drop my purse, taking the stairs, feeling every stress and woe lift from my shoulders the closer I get to him. I follow the music to his bedroom. The door is open, the sound of the shower spray dulled by the beats of the track. I approach slowly, the tiniest part of my brain ordering me to turn and run away from this madness. But the biggest part is willing me on, yelling at me, telling me the only madness in this world is outside of this glass box.
I stop at the door.
James is a blur beyond the foggy shower screen. But crystal clear. And the music is louder. I glance up and see speakers dotted across the ceiling, nestled in between the spotlights, which are dim. Moody.
Calming.
His hands sweep through his hair, his back rolling, the scars undetectable through the misty glass. He is a perfect way to lose my head. Lose everything. It’s unhealthy. To bury my head in the sand, it has to be unhealthy, because outside of this glass box, the world still exists. It’s still filled with a father who abandoned me, grief for a mom who I lost far too soon, and a crazed agony that sent me to a psychiatric facility at the lowest point of my life. But, while I’m here, while I’m in James’s orbit, I’m not that bereaved woman.
I’m free. It’s addictive . . . dangerous.
I’m at its mercy.
James stills, and then he turns slowly, his head lifting as he does, reaching for the screen and sweeping a hand across it, clearing part of the glass of condensation. His face. Just the sight of him. He radiates power. His persona screams hazard. But beyond every masculine, strong, capable piece of him is a gentleness that’s grown since we met. He knows who I am, what I need, without even knowing.
Fireworks explode inside of me, my bottom lip trembling. I’m at his mercy.
He jerks his head, a silent instruction for me to go to him, so I step forward, my hands lifting to the buttons of my shirt, and when I make it to the edge of the enclosure, he reaches out and pulls me in fully clothed. One swift move has me turned, my back up against the tile. He breathes down on me, his eyes roaming every inch of my face. “Is your friend okay?” he asks quietly, nuzzling into my face. My head drops back, giving him access to my neck, and I nod as best I can, instantly out of my mind. He knows damn well there is no friend with man troubles. “Speak soon?” he asks, and I swallow, clenching my eyes closed. “Do you want to speak now?”
“No,” I reply, my voice thick with need.
He slips a hand onto my nape and directs my head back down. His eyes harbor a million strands of knowing. “Me neither.”
His mouth is on mine fast.
My shirt is ripped open.
My jeans are wrestled down my legs.
My panties ripped away.
And he slams into me with a force so hard, I’m unsure how the tiles don’t crack behind me.
I scream.
And it drowns out every other thought plaguing me.
Just as I planned.
46
JAMES
The relief I feel that she’s here is spilling out of me in the form of anger. I can’t stop it. And by the feel of her nails in my shoulders, she doesn’t want me to, which leaves me wondering what went down at her uncle’s place. Goldie reported Beau’s father was there. She said Beau stormed out. And now she’s here, seeming as stressed as I am.
