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She’s looking down, right at me.
Chapter Three
Fiona
I’mfine.
Sometimes, I have no idea what triggers my anxiety. I can be walking home from work, and the sight of a car can make my heart race a mile a minute. At home, the simple mistake of letting a pot boil over can send my thoughts spiraling into no man’s land.
But tonight, I know it’s overstimulation. There’s too much here—the noise, the people, the pink blending into a blur equals Fiona having a freak-out.
It’ll pass. It always does, but I didn’t want it to happen here. Bexley will track me down, and when she sees the wide eyes and the jumping pulse, she’ll take me back to my hotel room and that’ll be the end of her engagement party.
I’ve got to calm down before that happens. I’ve been dealing with anxiety since my mother died. I lost my mom and gained a clenched stomach and trouble catching my breath. Also sweating. Definitely not a fair trade. Thanks to the quick diagnosis from my guidance counselor, I started therapy to learn to deal with it. The panic attacks are few and far between, but the uneasiness has never completely gone away, returning with a vengeance whenever I’m overwhelmed with stress or work pressure or, like tonight, over-stimulation plus lack of sleep.
Removing myself from the situation is the best thing, but I can’t do that tonight because I’m here to celebrate.
“Here’s the woman of the hour.” I don’t have to force my smile as Bexley approaches, the usual concern in her eyes. I hate to see it, tonight of all nights. “I’m fine,” I hasten to add.
“Then why are you up here?” Bexley looks at me searchingly. She knows me well enough that I don’t have to say anything about what’s going on in my head—the lights, the noise, the constant movement. The people. But already, being up here, one step removed, has helped. My pulse has slowed, breathing is easier.
“It’s fine now. Just needed a minute.” I focus on unclenching my stomach and take a deep cleansing breath. I want to hide out somewhere, but Bexley is my best friend and I’m not about to ruin her night by letting her worry about me. “All good. Do you want to dance or have a drink first?”
“We can stay here as long as you want.”
“Nope. We’re here to have fun. I just needed a minute.”
“Mase got us a table.” Bexley gestures behind us where the group has gathered, joined by a pretty waitress in a shiny, hot pink dress that looks like it’s been glued on to her curves. “Can you believe he owns this place?”
I start to reply with a catty remark but shut my mouth. I haven’t been impressed by Mase, the incomparable flirt; a player who thinks women are purely for his enjoyment and loves his celebrity status.
Maybe he is like that, but the softness of his voice moments ago wars with that opinion.
I also can’t seem to get his scent out of my head. Citrus, with a hint of pine.
“That’s really cool,” I say instead.
“Yeah. I still wouldn’t trust him with you—”
“With me?”
“Look at how many women he goes through. I just saw him with Arabella, and he looked like he was about to jump this other one, giving her the eye.”
I’ve seen those eyes. Maybe he hasn’t looked at me like he looked at the other women—I don’t want to admit I was watching him from up here, but I was—but they’re nice eyes. Blue; heavy-lidded, like he needs more sleep.
“Well, don’t worry about me,” I assure Bexley. “I’ve seen the types he attracts, and they are not me.”
“It wouldn’t be me either.” She plucks at her cropped tank top; that plus a pair of ripped jeans is her idea of going-out clothes. “We obviously missed the memo on the dress code. Everyone is in pink!”
“At least I wore a dress,” I point out.
“Yes, but it’sgreen.” She laughs. “I kind of feel like I’m inside a bottle of Pepto Bismol.”
“Totally.” We stand together looking down at the dancers and I take one final deep breath. “But it’s pretty incredible.”
“I know. When are we ever going to come to a place like this again? I heard Shae say that Timothée Chalamet comes here.”
I raise an eyebrow at Bexley, usually so oblivious to anything pop culture. “Do you even know who Timothée Chalamet is?”
