Page 32 of Under Locke & Key

She has a smudge across the bridge of her nose and it takes everything in me not to swipe it away with my thumb.

The past weeks have been torture. The ones since Pride and our date even more so.

June melts into July as we buckle down to finish this project and the only stress relief I find is with my mouth against hers, pushing my mind to a blissful blank.

All the conversations in the car, the way her face lights up when she talks about her ideas, leave a heavy feeling in my stomach that’s getting harder and harder to ignore.

Even with the additional week apart for my hand to heal and the bathroom fiasco.

Besides, I have no idea if she’s even planning to stick around.

Maybe sex will complicate things too much.

Maybe you should just let yourself have something for once. Be selfish. Take what you need and stop second guessing. Stop sitting with your tail between your legs, begging to be seen and hoping she will take the initiative so you don’t have to admit that you want something.

It’s ridiculous that I thought she was anything like Stephanie in the beginning.

Beyond the occasional professional smooth appearance, which has gotten less and less frequent since our work got more physical, the two couldn’t be more different.

Where Stephanie cared about appearance for appearance sake, Rachel just wants to make her parents proud.

Stephanie only seemed to want me around as a symbol but Rachel treats me like a person.

I never realized how big that difference felt until she came into my life.

I’m dangerously close to something there’s no coming back from and the last thing I want to do is ruin the business relationship, and friendship, we’re building because I’m in too deep.

Maybe this is casual for her. There’s too much at stake.

If we don’t launch within the next two months, I will have sunk all this money into the business with nothing to show for it.

“You okay? You seem to be thinking really hard about something over there,” Rachel says it with a lightness I don’t feel but the smile on her face is enough to coax one onto mine.

“Just worried about the launch.”

“We’ll pull it off. Even if it means all-nighters and recruiting whoever we can to help. My stubbornness won’t allow for anything but success. This is well thought out and there’s interest. Believe in yourself, Bryce. I do.”

Her words have me blushing so hot my cheeks throb with heat, although that could also just be the ninety-five degree day. Gutting the place on the hottest day of the summer so far is a dangerous endeavor considering we don’t have the AC worked out yet, but time is not on our side.

I finished the room I was working on alone and now the signature room—the biggest and most elaborate of them—is slowly coming together, or rather apart.

I’ve got two rows of seats unscrewed from the ground and Rachel is slowly peeling the weird industrial-type carpet crap from the walls so we can improve the soundproofing.

The yellow glue underneath it is a different story.

I underestimated just how much physical labor this would require but after weeks of hard work at least I’ve built up some calluses.

“Do you know if we have any industrial-strength stripper or anything? I’m scraping these off but the glue is tacked on so thick the edge of the scraper is near useless.” Rachel lifts up the offending tool and I grimace at the yellow-brown gunk.

“I think we have some paint stripper in the supply room just off of the kitchen that might work on that.”

She nods and sets her scraper down on the floor, atop a pile of charcoal carpet squares that served as soundproofing but are so old they do little but look horrendous now. Halfway up the walkway the image of her on her TV stand hanging curtains springs to mind and I chime in.

“If it’s out of reach just call me over, I’ll help you out.” The last thing I need is for her determination to do everything herself to get her injured.

She must know what I’m thinking about because she smirks and agrees before she struts out of the room and it takes me a full minute to get the image of her in those shorts out of my mind.

Shapely legs, wrapped around my waist, her body pressed against a wall and the salt of her skin on my lips.

No. I need to behave. I’ve been trying to keep my head about me so that my focus doesn’t shift from the business to Rachel.

Because I worry that she will pull me in so strongly I’ll sink, forgetting how to breathe.

There have been a few slip-ups. Lingering touches and hungry kisses that we’ve been able to brush off—taking it slow—but this is something else.

I need to get myself under control before she comes back.

Maybe I can hold out until the opening? So we don’t get distracted?

“ Bryce ,” she yells but the sound is faint given the distance, and I hope she’s calling for my height and not because she’s gotten herself into a scrape.

I rush toward the supply room, her back to me and she’s up on her tiptoes, calf muscles straining as she tries to reach.

The light from the hallway throws her into relief, and I’m surprised she was able to find anything at all in the dim room.

In my haste I don’t see the paint bucket propped up against the door until I’ve effectively kicked it into the supply room.

“ Son of a ? —”

The door snaps shut behind me, darkness swallowing us until there’s no light but the sliver under the door and the soft glow of her phone screen from one of the shelves.

“Oh, no.” Rachel’s grim tone pulls me out of the pain radiating out from my toes.

All I can think about is that Lord of the Rings fact that every fan loves to toss out about Viggo Mortenson as throbbing pulses through my big toe.

“‘Oh no,’ I’ve hurt myself or ‘Oh, no,’ something else?” I grit out between my teeth.

“Nothing to panic about.” Despite her words I can hear her breathing pick up in intensity, and catch before she exhales. “Let me just try my phone and I’ll?—”

The light from her screen uplights her face and I see her worry her lip between her teeth and her brows lower in concern before she looks up at me. Her frown shifts into concern as her gaze flits across my face, looking torn on whether or not to finish that sentence.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Unbidden I take a step closer to her so that her hands touch my chest and I can stare down at the screen in them.

“I was checking for signal . . .” It’s feeble and from my vantage point I can make out the angry symbol even upside down. “But there’s no service in here.”

It’s then that my breath catches in my throat and anxiety spikes so quickly I’m surprised I’m still outwardly fine.

Turning, my body brushing against hers and keeping me grounded, I try the door.

Tugging on the handle, I shove with my shoulder a few times but it doesn’t budge.

The room is basically a broom closet, closing in on the both of us.

Despite my typically cool head, my straightforward way of thinking and ability to detach, I panic.

The dark closes in on me, that sliver of light under the door and Rachel’s phone light the only things reminding me that I’m not being swallowed by an abyss.

“Bryce, it’s okay. We’re going to figure it out. Why don’t you take a step back and I’ll give it a try as well.” Her hand is small and soothing on my arm and I focus every thought on that point of contact. She turns on her phone flashlight to try and get a better look at the door.

Claustrophobia sneaks up on me. Everything is too close; I need out. I need to take a breath untainted by dust and old cleaning products. Not even Rachel’s scent is enough to drown it out. This is my worst nightmare. Although, it could be worse. I could be alone.

Noting my distress, Rachel tries the door, a similar jiggle, shove combination that makes no difference. Then she gets more aggressive with the handle, frustration in her voice. “Come on. Come on !”

A metallic clink sounds, the limited visibility heightening the sensation of my hearing. My heart soars for a moment and then gets stuck in my throat when I see the horror on her face. In her grasp is the handle. No longer attached to the door.

“Oh god. Oh no. Fuck.” My hands are shaking now. The expletive is so unlike me that it must tip her off because she’s there. Handle on the ground, she sets her phone down on one of the shelves so the flashlight illuminates some of the space. Her hands hover over me, unsure.

My breath saws in and out of my chest and I know I should slow it down.

Hyperventilating helps neither of us in this situation.

Cooler heads prevail. But my mind fled when the door shut and left my body in charge.

It’s hard to tell if the darkness at the edges of my vision is from the lack of oxygen or just the lack of light around me.

“Bryce.” Her voice is soft, coaxing.

I wish I could respond, but I’m choking on the lack of air and my shaking fingers grasp at my neck in desperation. On the verge of clawing at my throat, she grabs my hands with a strength I wasn’t expecting.

“I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m here,” she says it over and over, like a mantra that I try to cling to but everything is fuzzy.

“I need you to sit down. We need to get your head between your legs.” She tugs me and my body complies, nothing left in me to fight when the overwhelm has taken me over.

Concrete that’s only barely colder than the hot air around me is a new sensation, one that gives me a shred of something to ground me. It should be counter productive, putting my head down and making myself smaller, but somehow it helps. As if I’m no longer in the space at all.