Page 15 of Most Likely to Deny Love (Yearbook #2)

MIA

Instead of the ibuprofen though, my eyes landed on the familiar stack of yellow post-it notes , sitting neatly atop my Paris travel brochure.

I scooped them up, shuffling through the collection that had grown over the weeks.

Two more from last week, and another this morning, waiting on my keyboard when I arrived.

Today’s had a different vibe to the others. One I wasn’t sure I liked. I read it again, the neat, slanted handwriting now as familiar as my own: Accept your limits, then surpass them.

A frown tugged at my brow as I stared at those words.

Accept my limits? Was that some kind of joke?

My entire fucking life was a study in limitations.

My mom’s constant reminders of what I couldn’t do, couldn’t be, couldn’t have.

My mirror that reflected back curves where there should be angles.

My job that squeezed me between glass ceilings and corporate bullshit.

Jesus, I was in a mood today. I tossed the stack back into the drawer with more force than necessary. The notes scattered slightly, no longer in their neat pile. I didn’t bother fixing them.

My head throbbed with renewed vengeance as I hunted around for the bottle of pain relievers. I could have cried with relief when I found it hidden behind my emergency chocolate stash. Dry-swallowing two tablets, I grimaced at the bitter taste that clung to the back of my throat.

I let out a sigh of resignation. Almost against my will, my eyes drifted across the office floor.

Jack. The thought of him made something flutter in my stomach that had no place in a professional environment. I’d spent the entire weekend trying not to think about him. About the intensity in his dark eyes. About that not quite smile that turned me to goo.

“Not today, Satan,” I muttered to myself, pulling the nearest stack of reports toward me. I had work to do, a team to manage, and absolutely zero time to indulge in schoolgirl fantasies about my boss.

But as I dove into the morning’s tasks, I couldn’t quite silence the voice in the back of my mind wondering who kept leaving those notes, or why today’s message felt so personal, so pointed.

It was like someone could see straight through all my carefully constructed walls.

My pulse spiked at the very idea of it and I had to drag in a deep breath to calm myself down.

I was halfway through the prep work for Rebecca’s report when my phone buzzed against the desk.

My mother’s name flashed on the screen, sending a tiny jolt of dread through my system.

What the fuck was wrong with me today? I considered ignoring it, but experience had taught me that doing that only made her push harder.

With a sigh, I picked up the phone and opened her message.

Good news! Megan’s fiancé has a cousin who needs a date for the wedding. He’s not much to look at, but at least that’ll save you the embarrassment of going on your own. I’ve passed on your number, so expect a call.

The words landed like a slap. Not much to look at. Embarrassment. Going on your own.

I was close to thirty. It was insane that this could affect me so badly. But it did. My collar suddenly felt too tight. The sound of my blood rushing in my ears was deafening. The headache that had been simmering at my temples spread across my forehead like wildfire.

I glanced at my reflection in my dark computer screen.

I saw the curve of my cheeks, the softness under my chin that no amount of contouring could completely disguise.

Maybe if I found time for the gym this week.

Maybe if I skipped a few lunches. Maybe if I was just a little less.

.. me. Maybe then my mother would leave me the fuck alone.

My chest tightened as I tried to calculate how many workouts I could squeeze in between now and the wedding. How many meals I could “forget” to eat. How many hours of sleep I could sacrifice to fit it all in.

The air in my office felt suddenly thin, insufficient. My heartbeat quickened, a rapid tattoo against my ribs. I needed to get away, needed space, needed quiet.

Without conscious thought, I bolted out of my chair so quickly it spun behind me, and headed out of my office, past my team and down a narrow hallway. Thank god Emily wasn’t at her desk to stop me. Or to ask me what was wrong.

The pressure in my chest intensified with each step, my breathing becoming shallow and fast.

I pushed through a door marked “Server Room—Authorized Personnel Only,” seeking refuge in the first private space I could find. The door clicked shut behind me, plunging me into relative darkness broken only by the blinking red indicator lights on the tall racks of equipment.

My back hit the wall as my legs threatened to give out. My heart pounded so loudly in my ears that it drowned out the hum of the servers. My fingers tingled strangely, and no matter how deeply I tried to inhale, I couldn’t seem to catch my breath.

I slid down to the floor, my knees pulled tight against my chest, as the room seemed to spin around me. This wasn’t happening. Not here. Not now.

Time became elastic, stretching and contracting with each labored breath. I couldn’t tell if I’d been sitting there for minutes or hours, trapped in the endless loop of trying to pull air into lungs that refused to cooperate. The red lights blinked steadily, unconcerned with my private meltdown.

Get a fucking grip. But my body wasn’t listening. The tingling in my fingers spread to my hands, my lips felt numb, and the tightness in my chest had transformed into a vise, squeezing without mercy.

I didn’t hear the door open. The gentle click as it closed again barely registered. It wasn’t until a shadow blocked the red light that I realized I was no longer alone.

I looked up into Jack Sullivan’s concerned face, illuminated in the eerie red glow of the server lights. His brows were drawn together, his mouth set in a tight line as he looked down at me.

“Mia.” His tone was soft but firm, somehow cutting through the panic.

I tried to straighten, to calm myself, to pretend this wasn’t happening.

“I’m fine,” I gasped, the words tumbling out too fast, too high.

“I just needed a minute. Just one minute. I’ll be right back at my desk.

You don’t have to stay. You can go. I’m good, really.

Just needed some air.” The words spilled out between shallow breaths, making me sound exactly as not-fine as I felt.

Without a word, Jack lowered himself to the floor beside me. His shoulder brushed against mine, warm and solid in the chilled air of the server room.

“You’re having a panic attack.” He said it quietly, stating it as a simple fact, not a judgment.

I wanted to deny it, to salvage what little dignity I could, but all I could manage was a jerky nod.

“Give me your hand.”

I lifted my trembling hand and his fingers wrapped around mine with gentle firmness. He drew it toward him, pressing the back of my hand against his chest. Through the fine fabric of his shirt, I could feel the steady thump of his heart, strong and even.

“I’m going to touch your neck now, okay?”

I managed another nod, and he reached behind me.

His fingers slid beneath my hair to find a specific spot at the base of my skull, applying gentle but firm pressure to the soft hollow there.

The unexpected intimacy of his touch might have shocked me in any other moment, but now it felt like an anchor, keeping me from floating away into the panic.

Something about the precise pressure of his fingertips sent a wave of relief cascading through my nervous system.

“Breathe with me, Mia,” he instructed, his thumb moving in small circles at the base of my skull. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Feel my chest rise and fall. Match your rhythm to mine.”

His voice was so damn soothing. I focused on the solid warmth of his hand cradling my neck, the steady beat of his heart against my knuckles. Tried to follow the measured pace of his breathing.

“That’s it.” His voice was a low, easy rumble I could almost feel through our connected hands. “You’re doing well. Keep going.”

Slowly, incrementally, my breathing began to sync with his. The vise around my chest loosened, one notch at a time. The tingling in my extremities began to recede.

I couldn’t say how long we sat there in the dark, breathing together, but gradually the room stopped spinning. The pounding in my ears quieted to a manageable thrum.

When I finally felt like I could speak without gasping, I whispered, “How did you know where I was?”

Jack’s thumb continued its hypnotic movement against my neck. “I saw you leave your office. You looked... not yourself. When you didn’t come back, I got concerned.”

The simplicity of his answer made my throat tight. He’d noticed. He’d worried. He’d come looking.

“How did you know what to do?” I was suddenly aware of how close we were sitting, of his fingers still curved around my neck, of my hand still pressed to his chest.

His reply was simple. “Experience.” He offered no further explanation.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again. Embarrassment was beginning to replace panic as my primary emotion. My boss had just found me huddled on the floor having a complete meltdown. Over what? A text from my mother? God, how pathetic.

As if reading my thoughts, Jack said quietly, “This doesn’t make you weak, Mia. Everyone has limits.”

The gentle tone of his voice made me look up at him. In the dim red glow of the server room, his expression was softer than I’d ever seen it, a glimpse behind the professional mask he typically wore.

“Come on, let’s get you up.”

He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, then extended his hand to me. I took it, grateful for the leverage as I attempted to stand. My legs, however, had other ideas. They trembled beneath me, still weak from the adrenaline crash, and I swayed dangerously.

Jack’s hands immediately went to my waist, steadying me. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice so close I could feel his breath stir my hair.

For a heartbeat, we stood there frozen, his hands firm on my waist, my palms pressed against the solid wall of his chest. Then, as naturally as breathing, his arms slid around me, drawing me into a proper hug.

I should have stiffened. Should have pulled away. Should have remembered every rule we were breaking in this moment. But my body, still raw from the panic attack, recognized only safety and warmth, and I melted against him without hesitation.

His hand moved to cradle the back of my head, tucking me securely against his shoulder. I could hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my ear, feel the rise and fall of his chest against mine. The scent of him—clean cotton, expensive cologne, and something uniquely Jack—enveloped me.

In that moment, in the strange red twilight of the server room, nothing existed beyond the circle of his arms. Not my mother’s cruel words. Not the company’s expectations. Not even my own stubborn insecurities. Just quiet, and safety, and a peace I hadn’t felt in longer than I could remember.

“Thank you, Jack,” I whispered.

His only reply was to tighten his arms around me.