Page 6

I’ve only been witness to one other panic attack.

I walked in on my mom the day she got her CIDP diagnosis.

She was standing next to the small island in my parents’ kitchen, muscles clenched and whole body trembling.

I had no idea what to do, so I got her to sit down on the floor, and I plopped down next to her and started telling her about my day.

Eventually, her breathing normalized, and she was able to tell me what she was feeling.

There have been very few other moments in my life when I’ve felt so helpless, and I vowed to be better prepared if there was ever a next time for my mom.

I don’t wait for Holland to confirm it for me now.

“It’s going to be okay. I know what to do. We’re going to stay right here.” I put my hands back on his arms. “You can get through this. Listen to me. Breathe in for four seconds. Hold it for two seconds. Then blow out for eight seconds. Let’s do it together. Here we go.”

I breathe and watch as he mimics my action, eyes now locked on mine.

“Good. Again.” We do this three more times, and I feel his body uncoil under my fingers. “Good. Any better? ”

He nods.

I take a step back from him as he tugs on his bow tie.

“Did something happen out there?” I ask after a moment.

He shakes his head no.

“Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to,” I add. This is uncharted territory for me. Holland is usually so…so sure of himself.

Now, he’s like a wounded animal, limping out of oncoming traffic.

Or a caged animal, trapped with precariously placed wine bottles and his overdressed golf coach.

This night—or should I say, morning?—is so weird.

He swallows hard. “I…” He starts slowly, as if testing whether his mouth is going to cooperate. “I don’t…” He pauses again and mouths the rest of his sentence before speaking it out loud. “I don’t know…what happened to me,” he concludes.

We stand in silence for a couple moments. I’m not exactly sure what to do now. My technical knowledge of panic attacks doesn’t extend to humiliated Most Eligible Mister leads.

“There are j-just…” He clenches his jaw, as if disgusted with himself. He takes a deep breath. “Just,” he enunciates, “so many.”

“Women?” I clarify.

He nods. “I know what you’re thinking. This is what I signed up for.”

Guilty. But at least when he’s calling me out, his words seem to come more smoothly.

“Well, yeah,” I admit.

He rubs the back of his neck. “There’s so much out of my control.” His voice is hoarse. “It’s not like golf, you know? There, I have a sequence of actions I can follow. A skill set I can tap into. But this…” He breaks off and shakes his head. “This is unlike anything I’ve ever done.”

“You’d usually be the first to tell me you have a skill set where women are concerned,” I point out, because I can’t help myself .

He almost smiles, but not quite.

“I felt the anxiety building, and I thought I could get through it, but there are so many cameras, and I’m so tired. Gosh, what time is it?”

I tap my phone. “Six twenty-seven…a.m.”

He groans. “I can barely think straight. I’m going to make a fool of myself. This is not how I thought the first night would go.”

I press my lips together. He mistakes my expression for smug.

“Go ahead. I’m sure you’d love to gloat. Say I told you so .”

He’s not wrong. Usually, I’d be thrilled to have the upper hand and rub something in Holland’s face.

But I’m not about to kick my athlete when he’s down. Besides, we just went through something together. Something real. I’m not going to make fun of him for whatever he’s dealing with. Not when I saw firsthand how much it rattled him.

“I’m thinking about how we can get you through this,” I say.

He cocks his head to the side. “I’m listening.”

“You said it’s not like golf, but we can break it down like it is. Imagine we’re on the eighteenth fairway. Last hole of the day. You’re exhausted, but you’re not giving up. I’ll kick your butt if you do.”

That earns a partial smile.

Calling it a win.

“Here’s how this is going to go. After we’re done here, you’re going to go out there and find your producer. Tell her it’s time to be done. You get to take some control of this ridiculously drawn-out event.”

He nods slowly. “I can do that. I just want this night to be over.”

“Then talking to the producer is the first step in making that happen. After that, you should go to your room. Take a second to get your bearings. You don’t need to talk to anyone else. Give yourself a minute. ”

Holland is hanging on my every word. This is good. I’m good at giving directions, and he’s good at following them. This is how we work best.

I think through how the rest of this event is supposed to go. We have to get through the bouquet ceremony, and then we should be home free.

“Do you have your picks made?” I try not to think about how ridiculous it is that I’m talking to Holland about which women he’s choosing for a reality TV dating show. What is my life?

“I think so, but that’s half the problem. What if I say the wrong name? Or can’t remember a name? I don’t want to look like an idiot.”

I study the bags under Holland’s eyes and the way his mouth is drawn. This is not the moment to tell him to man up or remind him that these are very privileged concerns he’s having. He’s truly worked up. So again, I bite my tongue and try to approach this like I would a problem with his swing.

That’s it.

“Golf.”

“What?” He furrows his brow.

“This entire MEM situation is hyping up the fact that you’re an all-star golfer, right?”

“I guess.” He shrugs and then manages to smirk. “I mean, I am.”

There’s the Holland I’m used to.

I roll my eyes at him, more grateful to see his color returning to normal than I am annoyed with his outrageous self-confidence.

“Okay. So let’s play into that. Why don’t you write down the women’s names?”

“I can’t go up there with a list.” He scoffs. “Have you seen the show? No one does that.”

“I know that. But what if you use your billfold, like if you were going into the clubhouse after a round to verify everything and turn in your scorecard. You can write the names in there and reference your list, even making some reference to how you’re taking this as seriously as you take your golf game. ”

“That might work,” he says after a second. “Except, I don’t have my billfold.”

“I do.” I took it with me after we got the scorecard returned from the tournament heads last Sunday so I could add information about the course in Cashmere Cove to the notes section. “I’ll get it from my room and leave it in yours while you talk to your producer.”

He exhales. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I pause. “Because you don’t have to do this, Bradley. Even if everyone is expecting you to do it. If it’s too much or you want out, you have every right to protect your peace.”

He stares at me, and I don’t break eye contact. I want him to see I’m not messing around, and I’m not teasing him for anything that could be perceived as weakness.

“I appreciate that. But I want to do this. I know you think I’m crazy, but I want to find a wife. A partner.”

“You’re not crazy.” My voice wobbles a little bit.

Maybe my mom’s perspective where Holland is concerned is actually wearing on me.

I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, and even if I do think shows like Most Eligible Mister are mostly a crock of crap, I can’t fault him for wanting a partner.

Don’t we all? “That’s a good thing to want to find. ”

He nods decisively and turns to leave the pantry, but then he stops and spins to face me. “Thank you, Mallory. For…for…”

It’s not a stutter. Not this time. No. He’s searching for the right words.

He looks so earnest and so at a loss, and I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but when his brown eyes dive fully into mine, something unfamiliar swims through my stomach.

Something that feels like compassion, like I want to ease the vise grip that’s squeezing Holland’s insides and making him feel small.

“Saving the wine?” I motion to the shelves. “Anytime.” I wink, and he lets out a breath .

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Thanks. I’ll see you out there.”

“See you out there.”

He shoves open the door, and he’s gone, and I’m standing in the pantry. With the wine. And with a funny feeling in my chest, like this thing Holland and I went through together—and emerged victorious from, whatever it was, exactly—stirred up the cells in my blood stream.

I’m momentarily frozen in place by the madness of it all. But then I shake out my arms and square my shoulders.

Now, when he eliminates me from the posse of women who are vying for his love, everything will go back to normal, and that’ll be the real victory of my day.