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Oh no.
Wells leans forward slightly, and I have no doubt that the bit of anger I saw in his eyes has grown exponentially. I hold my breath, unsure of what to do or say. I bite my bottom lip, finding a bit of dry skin and pulling it off my lip as I anxiously wait for whatever is going to happen next.
“Parker is very much my business,” Eira announces. “Very much so.”
“Since she’s mine, I very much doubt that,” Wells growls.
“Yours?”
I feel like I’m listening to a verbal, volleying match between them. I can’t see Wells’s face, but I don’t think I want to right now anyway. I have a feeling I would probably be scared.
Holding my breath, I wait for Wells to clarify the statement. I want to know exactly what he is going to say. I know what he tells me when we’re alone, but this is different. This is in public.
“My woman. My fiancée.”
His words catch me by surprise, and my breath hitches. I blink, my throat going dry instantly.
Fiancée?
What on earth?
WELLS
Fiancée.
Fuck.
It just slipped out, but I’m fucking committed now. Sucking in a deep breath, I hold it for a moment as I wait for this pencil-dicked motherfucker to say some fly shit. He doesn’t. His brows rise, and he takes a step backward, his chest no longer as puffed up as it was just moments ago.
“I… I didn’t know,” he mumbles.
He doesn’t say another word. I watch as he spins around and walks away, his shoulders a bit slumped, and for whatever reason, that makes me smile. Turning, I face Parker. Her face is white as a sheet, her eyes wide and her lips parted in surprise.
“Take me to your office,” I murmur.
She nods her head, snapping her lips closed, and brushes past me, making her way toward the closed door. I ignore the looks from every single person as we walk by. It’s clear they heard the whole conversation and are intrigued by what’s just happened.
Parker opens a door and stands aside to allow me inside. Walking past her, I stop in the middle of her small space and glance around. It’s clean, just like her home. Fresh and tidy. Everything is not only in its place, but it also has a place to be in.
She closes the door behind me, and I hear the lock click into place, the sound causing my lips to twitch into a smirk. I wait for her to walk toward me, but she doesn’t. Instead, I can hear her panting breaths behind me.
Turning slowly, I face her. She’s got her palms pressed against the door. Her eyes are wide, and her lips parted as she breathes in short, quick pants. She’s having a fucking panic attack. I watch as wetness fills her eyes and slowly rolls down her cheeks. If she notices, she doesn’t wipe it away.
Wetness streams down her cheeks, her jaw, and onto the little bow at her throat. “Talk to me,” I demand.
She pinches her eyes closed, shaking her head from side to side. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out except some little squeaks. She’s deep in her panic, and I’m not sure how to bring her out of it.
There is only one person who can help, and she’s going to be pissed off that I even know Parker is her client. Shoving my hand into my pocket, I take out my phone and find my mom’s name. She answers on the second ring.
“Wells, I’m at work. What is wrong?”
She knows I never disturb her workday. Not ever. It was a rule enacted when Coleman was about twelve and would call to ask if he could have a snack after school, about once an hour, every hour for a week. She lost her mind and banished us from calling her at work.
“Parker is having a panic attack. I don’t know what to do.”
“Parker?” she asks.
“Mom,” I snap.
