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I quickly swallow back a sob. “He’s flying to Toronto tonight. He won’t be driving with me, and the worst part—I had to hear this from Lois.”
“He did not.”
“Are you really surprised? I don’t even know if I’ll have a car and driver tomorrow. I have to be in Toronto for TIFF.”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve attended Toronto’s International Film Festival. It’s expected of me and a big deal for my father. I have ten days to get there and a day to spare for last-minute details. This is plenty of time to drive from Los Angeles, but that’s if a driver shows up tomorrow. With my father ditching me, everything may have been canceled.
“Why are fathers such dicks?” She stares off into the middle distance, likely stewing about her own absentee father.
“Are you sure you can’t drive back with me?” This isn’t the first time I’ve asked, and while I know the response, I hope something may have changed.
“I can’t. I’ve got the New York press junket.” She smooths down her dress in what feels like a way to avoid my gaze. “L, are you sure you can’t fly home? Take a sleeping pill. It’ll knock you out, and when you wake up, you’ll be there. It’ll be easy peasy. You’ve done it before.”
My heart thunders, battering against my ribs, and beads of sweat gather at the back of my neck. She makes it sound so simple. I have done it before. I hate flying, but things are different now, my fear more intense than ever.
Fallon doesn’t understand. No one does. Everyone thinks I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Being difficult.
My legs shake, and I sink onto the arm of her chair. “Fal, I-I can’t. You were at LAX two weeks ago.”
I shouldn’t have to bring up one of the most paralyzing moments of my life. Fallon dropped me at the airport, she knows. Not even an hour later, I called her to come get me.
No matter how I tried, air wouldn’t fill my lungs. Dark spots filled my vision. I almost passed out. The paramedics were called, and I shudder at the memory.
Despite all the work I’ve done with Doctor Hemming, I haven’t conquered how to stop the panic from choking me to death.
A soothing hand rubs small circles on my back. “Leighton, you’re okay. You don’t have to fly home. You’re driving.” Her assuring tone marshals the bile clawing its way up my throat back down where it belongs.
“That’s right.” I nod, reminding myself that I don’t have to get on a plane. Not now or ever.
She smiles. “Speaking of driving, Tristan will be here any minute now.”
Her brother is coming with us tonight, and I’d better finish getting ready. Now on my feet, I walk over to my heels while Fallon sashays over to the mirror once more to apply her ruby-red Dior lipstick.
There’s a knock at the door, and Fallon’s closest though she doesn’t give any indication she’ll get it. Lipstick tube in hand, she spins to survey the room. “Where’s my wristlet?”
The sparkling thing rests on the table beside her, and I point to it as another bang rattles me. I pause with one foot sliding into a high heel and wonder if I need to answer it.
She riffles through her small purse, and my annoyance bursts free. “Are you going to get that or do I have to?”
Her brow quirks again. Surprised at my challenging tone? Or amused? “Yup.” She emphasizes thepwith a pop and smiles in that way of hers, dripping with tooth-aching sugariness. “It’s just Tristan. Relax.”
Satisfied, my gaze falls to my shoe situation, but I snap my head in the direction of the door at Fallon’s seductive, “Hello.”
She grabs a fistful of the white T-shirt hugging a chiseled chest. It isn’t Tristan.
A blond guy in board shorts, flip-flops, and though it’s well past nine at night, sunglasses on top of his head stands in the doorway. He points at Fallon, smile growing by the second, and readily allows her to drag him into the suite.
“Hey. Aren’t you fromWicked Games?” He points at her.
She eye fucks him, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “I sure am. Fallon Kingsley.” She thrusts her hand out. “And who are you?”
He guides her hand to his mouth, and I purse my lips in distaste as his lips brush her knuckles. “I’m Tom.”
“Tom, do you wanna come to a party?” Like a flea on a dog, she burrows nearer to him, and her pink fingernail scores a path from his collar down the middle of his defined chest.
In the wake of her touch, his defined pectorals jump. My eyes glue to his hardening nipples and twitching muscles, easily visible through his threadbare shirt.
“Sounds like fun, but I’m working.” His eyes sparkle with mischief when he glances at me, and my cheeks heat. “Are you Leighton Price?”
