Page 34 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

TAYLOR

I get through the rest of rehearsal, fighting the urge to smile at the thought that maybe things are still good with Eric.

I hear Bryan call my name as I walk across the parking lot toward my car, the snowfall coming down in puffy flakes around me.

“How about Friday?” he asks when I turn.

I stare at him so long that my eyes start to water from the cold.

“To get together and work on your lines. I assume you’re going to Myrna’s famous cast potluck? It’s a tradition before every tech week.”

I nod. “I’ll be there.” Three words strung together. That’s an improvement.

“We could grab a drink beforehand.” He inclines his head to study me, not like a beagle at all I tell myself. “Unless you have other plans, or you’re bringing somebody to the dinner. I guess plus ones are welcome.”

“I don’t have a plus one,” I say quietly.

This is working out just the way it’s supposed to, right? Me not giving off desperate, needy, or puke-on-your-shoes energy has made Bryan interested in a way he wasn’t before .

“A drink sounds great.” Four words. Keep ’em coming, Taylor.

He adjusts the wool hat he’s wearing, which gives him a Where’s Waldo-ish appearance. That’s better than a beagle at least. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

“I’ll meet you at Tony’s at five-thirty,” I suggest. “The library closes at five on Fridays, so that should give me plenty of time.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you…well, I’ll see you tomorrow for rehearsal.”

I hold out my hands to catch the snowflakes, the icy bits stinging my palms. “They’re forecasting eight inches over the next couple of days.”

“It’s my first Colorado winter,” he says. “Quite a change from California. Good thing I had snow tires put on my car.”

“Just remember that snow tires are for snow. They don’t do much on ice.” Well done, me, I think. Just what every guy wants from a girl—winter driving tips.

“Spoken like a true native.” He gives me that patented boyish smile. A few weeks ago, it would have sent my heart into overdrive. Tonight, my body doesn’t react.

“Sure.” I sound like one of those dolls where you pull the string in the back and they say the same thing over and over again.

“I’m glad you stuck with the play.” He winks. “I knew your issues couldn’t be as bad as people told me.”

“What do people say?” Note to self: don’t ask questions if you don’t want to hear the answer.

“You know.” He uses one of his hands to mimic puking while the other one waves vaguely in front of his crotch area.

Right. I knew that but his reminder does nothing for my mood. “I’ll see you at the next rehearsal.”

He gives me a thumbs-up and turns toward his car—a late-model Volvo station wagon he told me his parents bought for him when he announced he was moving to the mountains.

The moment he’s out of sight, my confidence crumbles like wet sand.

My heartbeat, which had been steady during our conversation, suddenly kicks into overdrive.

My chest tightens painfully as sweat beads along my hairline.

The familiar tingle starts in my fingertips, spreading upward through my arms, while my vision narrows at the edges.

My stomach is in knots as I pull out of the parking lot.

I recognize the start of a panic attack, which I haven’t had for years.

Mostly because I stopped taking risks that might induce one.

It’s simply nerves about going out for a drink with the guy I like, I tell myself. But that’s not true. It’s nerves about falling for the guy who’s all wrong for me.

I drive home on autopilot, one white-knuckled hand gripping the steering wheel while I force myself to take measured breaths. I know I shouldn’t be behind the wheel like this, but focus on holding the panic at bay just long enough to make it home safely.

After letting myself into the building, I climb the steps, holding tight with a death grasp on the railing.

At the top of the stairs, I hear voices.

Eric’s door is open. Music, laughter, and the smell of carne asada waft from inside.

I keep one hand on the wall as I walk slowly down the hallway, telling myself I need to get a grip.

The last thing I want is to collapse in a hyperventilating heap right outside Eric’s apartment.

It feels like walking past a warm and cozy fire while I’m trapped outside in a blizzard.

“Taylor!” Mrs. Simon calls from the doorway. “We saved some food for you. It’s delicious. I can hardly believe it—we have a guy here who’s handy with a hammer, built like a brick shit house, and cooks like it’s his job, and some lucky woman hasn’t snagged him yet.”

I hear Rhett snort from inside the apartment. “Brick shit house. That’s hilarious.”

“Young man, I might be old, but I’m not blind,” Mrs. Simon admonishes. “Did you get that spoon and the ice cubes going like I told you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” comes the immediate answer.

“A guaranteed snow day. Ask Taylor.” She steps into the hallway and points in my direction. “She’ll confirm that ice cubes flushed down the toilet and sleeping with a spoon under your pillow is more than superstition. It works.”

“It works,” I confirm but keep moving. “I’m going to skip dinner tonight. You should take the leftovers. The snow’s picking up out there. Might be time to hunker down for a few days.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie. Eric went to the grocery for me today. So nice to have a man around.”

My heart races because of how nice it is to have Eric around. Or maybe it’s just more of the panic attack. Hard to know the difference at the moment..

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I call. My voice sounds thready, so I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I get to my apartment and unlock the door with shaking fingers, then stumble through.

I know how to deal with these sensations even though I haven’t had a panic attack since right after my mom died—the morning I was supposed to fly to San Diego for my final interview.

I ended up pulled over on the highway just outside of town for the better part of the morning.

Back then, I didn’t have people like the women in my book club.

There was nobody I felt comfortable calling to reveal my utter, pathetic weakness.

Definitely no one from my family. It was the driving force that sent me into therapy, and I learned coping mechanisms.

Something about tonight has sent me back to that place where my anxiety is in control.

I’d like to blame it on my stage-fright nerves.

But that’s just an easy out. Deep down, I know what’s really causing this spiral.

It’s the terrifying realization that this neighbors-with-benefits relationship is starting to feel more real than anything I’ve experienced.

My feelings for Eric–the ones that are getting harder to deny–are ripping away not just my confidence, but my belief that I’m going to be okay when all of this ends.

I’m drenched in sweat but don’t bother to take off my jacket. I throw my purse and phone on the kitchen counter, take another step toward my bedroom, and then my knees give way, and I’m on the floor.

Okay, fetal position—that works. I’m safe. I’m safe. I repeat the words over and over.

There’s a noise behind me, but I can’t look up.

A moment later, Eric is on the ground next to me. I feel his warmth and breathe in his familiar scent.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, placing an arm around me. “Are you sick?”

“How did you get in?”

“The door was open.”

“I’m fine.” But my body shakes uncontrollably, my teeth chattering even though sweat pours down my skin.

“What happened? Was it rehearsal?”

“Can’t… no…can’t.” My mouth feels like it has five pounds of cotton stuffed into it. It’s choking me. I need to breathe. “Go.”

“Not a chance,” he answers, but he gets up and walks away. I feel his absence like a knife to my gut. I hear him opening cabinets and going through drawers, and then he’s back.

“Paper bag,” he says. “Breathe into it.”

I want to tell him it won’t help, but I reach for it anyway. He wraps his giant hand around mine, holding the bag steady as I breathe in and out, in and out.

“I can’t believe you, Tinkerbell.”

I try to focus on his words. Is he really going to give me shit in this state? I deserve it but?—

“You didn’t warn me that Mrs. Simon is an oversexed Golden Girl. I’m pretty sure she tried to cop a feel when I was chopping the avocados. Just about sliced my thumb off. I needed your protection, Tink.”

I choke out a laugh around my labored breaths. “I can’t protect anyone.”

“The hell you can’t.”

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “You don’ t have to?—”

“I want to,” he interrupts, and then he just sits there with me, his palm warm as it traces circles on the middle of my back. His body radiates heat like he’s my personal furnace, and I can feel him controlling his breathing so I can regulate mine to his rhythm. It works, eventually.

I pull the paper bag away from my face and wipe a hand across my cheeks. “I’m through the worst of it.”

“What can I do?”

“You’ve already done so much. And I owe you an ap?—”

“You don’t owe me shit. Well, other than helping keep Mrs. Simon’s handsy hands to herself. Thank Christ she only wanted me for my food and the leftovers.”

I laugh softly. “ My leftovers.”

“I saved some. Let me bring you a plate.”

“It’s fine. I’m sure Rhett needs?—”

“Rhett is in his room playing video games with some buddies from the team.”

I smile. “I like that he has buddies.”

“Me too.”

“Are you going to let me apologize for the fuckboy comment?” I ask quietly. “You have to know I didn’t mean it.”

“I know. You can tell me how sorry you are later.” He wraps his free hand under my knees. “Right now, we need to take care of you.”

“Stop,” I protest, even as my fingers curl around his shoulders. “You can’t pick me up from the floor.”

“Watch me.”

“You’ll throw out your back. I’m not exactly tiny.” Which is a redundant thing to point out to a man who’s seen you naked.

“You’re the perfect size.” He stands as if I weigh nothing, his strong arms holding me steady before he sets me on the couch. “Let me bring you dinner. Food will help.”

Now that the panic is receding, I do feel hungry. Hungry and a little hollow. “I need to shower first. The panic attacks leave me a sweaty mess.”

“I’d prefer to make you a sweaty mess myself,” he says, completely serious. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. What am I supposed to say? I think I’m falling in love with you, and it’s freaking me out.

“Was it rehearsals?”

I arch a brow.

“Right. You don’t want to talk about it. At least until you’re fed. You shower. I’ll be back.”

“Sure.” My word of the night. I watch him walk away, wondering how we got here. From begrudging convenience to whatever this sweet, irresistible thing between us has become.

Eric stops at my doorway and glances over his shoulder, a smile playing at the corner of his full mouth. “Hey, Tinkerbell.”

My heart stutters in my chest. “Yeah?”

“Use the vanilla body wash. I still need dessert.”

And just like that, the panic that nearly drowned me minutes ago changes to a different kind of breathlessness altogether.