Page 52 of The Hot Shot

Panic skitters at the edges of my mind, trying to claw at my skin. I push it down deep, where it can’t get me.

I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t.

But I am afraid. I have no home. No one to comfort me. Loneliness is a gaping maw threatening to swallow me whole.A slow shake starts low in my belly, spreading upward and outward.

In the hall, someone is running, soles scuffing on the linoleum. My curtain pulls back with a trilling ring.

Finn strides in, wearing a frown and a perfectly cut navy blue suit.

The urge to cry surges up my throat. I swallow it down, blinking rapidly. “I broke my laptop,” I blurt out.

He doesn’t stop until I’m wrapped in a giant hug. “Honey,” he says in my damp air.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

I lean my head against his crisp suit jacket and draw in the scent of wool and soap. He’s so warm and solid, the ice around my heart instantly starts to thaw. He strokes my hair and then eases back to look me in the eyes. The compassion I see in his twists my battered heart. “You all right?” he asks.

No. Not even a little. “Fractured wrist. I’ll live.” I just don’t know where.

Finn touches the temporary cast they put on me, then his fingers drift down to skim across my knuckles. “It hurts, I know.”

“How did you know I was here?”

Why is he in a suit? God, he looks good in a suit.

“Someone started watching the evening news when we landed.” Finn’s expression turns haunted. “They were covering your building.”

“Ah.” I don’t want to relive that picture.

His fingers tighten on my shoulders. “Scared the shit out of me, Chess. I didn’t know if you were in there...” He trails off and gives me another hug. Fiercer this time. “Your neighbor, some guy named Fred, was still outside. He told me where to find you.”

I guess I have something to thank Fred for.

Finn peers down at me when I give a small huff of laughter. His mouth tightens. “You should have called me.”

“I forgot to grab my phone when the fire started.” I laugh again, but it doesn’t feel good. “I don’t know a single fucking number. Isn’t that pathetic? Couldn’t even remember James’s number, and I’ve known him for ten years. Not that it would matter, since he’s in New York right now.” I bite my lip to keep from babbling any further.

A sympathetic smile tilts Finn’s mouth. “I’d be fucked without my phone.”

I snort, fighting the burn behind my lids. “Well, I’m certainly fucked.”

He grimaces, ducking his head. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m crap at this.”

Personally, I think he’s pretty perfect right now. “It’s okay. I know what you meant. I’m just wallowing.”

“No, honey,” he says with force. “You feel whatever the hell you want to feel.” He looks like he wants to say more, but simply rests his massive hand on my shoulder, engulfing it with warmth. “You all clear to go?”

I nod toward the clipboard on the rolling table. “I have to fill out some forms first.”

He glances at my hand, half-encased in the cast, and then picks up the clipboard. He rests his butt against the bed, pen at the ready. “Give me the answers.”

A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow with difficulty, tasting ash. Slowly, I answer the questions, and he diligently writes them down.

The next thirty minutes swirl like a fog around me: Finn going off to talk to the nurse and give her my forms; Finn collecting my broken laptop, his hand at my lower back, guiding me out; the slap of fresh air when we leave the ER; Finn opening the door of his SUV and helping me climb in.

It isn’t until we’re driving, my bruised body softly embraced by luxury leather seats, that I find it in me to talk. “Where are we going?”

“Home.” His grip tightens on the wheel. “My home.”