“Breathe,” he orders again.
And I do.
In and out.
Nose and mouth.
Timing my breaths with his.
I’m not sure how long we stay like that — his hands on my cheeks, our eyes locked together. Long enough for my heart to stop thundering inside my chest. Long enough for my semi-hysterical rambles to fade and reason to return. Long enough for my cheeks to heat with embarrassment over the scene I’ve just caused in front of this stranger who’s done nothing but rescue my crazy ass. And, as a thank you, I let him witness a full-fledged panic attack. About produce, of all things.
Way to go, Shelby.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, mortified.
He just stares at me.
“I…” I avert my eyes from his and pull back, out of his hold. “I…”
“It’s fine,” he says gruffly, as though he’s not quite sure how to be gentle but is trying his damndest. He rises to his feet and shoves his hands in his pockets, blowing out a sharp breath. “Why don’t you just start at the beginning.”
My eyes flicker up to his for a brief second. “I…”
In the dark, his eyebrows are two black slashes. They lift in question, waiting for me to speak.
“I… I have to pee!” I blurt.
Before he can say another word, I hop to my feet and race for the bathroom. Slamming the door closed behind me, I collapse back against it, breathing hard. Afterthathumiliating experience, I think I’d prefer slowly starving to death in my dining room chair to ever again facing a man who’s witnessed the true depths of my insanity.
Congrats, looney tunes. Of all the embarrassing shit you’ve ever done… this truly takes the cake.
I drop my face into my hands and groan softly.
The true irony of it all?
I don’t even have to pee, anymore.
Chapter Four
GLUTEUS MAXIMUS
It takesme a while to muster the courage to leave the bathroom. But after fifteen minutes — during which I’ve peed, washed my face, combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and seriously contemplated the use of thirty-minute whitening strips because what can I say, stalling is my varsity sport — I officially run out of bathroom-related activities. I also realize no matter how long I stall, Mr. Macho is still going to be out there, all brooding and bossy, waiting for me.
Sigh.
When I finally open the door and step into the hallway, I find he’s turned on the lights. Blinking at the sudden brightness, I walk slowly back into the parlor, rubbing self-consciously at my chafed wrists. He’s standing with his back to me, peering out the front window at the street from behind a curtain. He speaks without turning around.
“We should get going.”
I flinch to a stop. “What?”
He turns to look at me, arms crossed over his chest, messy black hair falling into his eyes. My gaze drags from the badass motorcycle boots on his feet up two muscular legs encased in fitted black jeans, past the gun holstered at his belt, over a seriously sculpted chest, and, finally, to his face. My mouth falls open when I see it in the full light for the first time.
“You!” I say, recognition blazing through me. “I know you!”
He doesn’t move a muscle, but his eyes cut to mine. I see now that they aren’t black or brown, like I originally thought, but the darkest shade of indigo. Like a spill of navy ink, piercing and intense as they pin me to the spot.
“You were at Phoebe and Nate’s wedding last month!” I exclaim.