Her hand. Feels. So. Good. It makes me realize I can. Breathe. Suddenly, there’s air. A burst of air rushing down my throat and flooding through my nose. God, it feels so good. My lungs unclench. My backbone returns to where it belongs as my body starts to relax. I’m still sweating, though, soaking through my shirt. But it can’t be helped.
I’m a mess. Not a good, attractive mess, either. A nasty, gross, sweaty, and snotty mess.
And we’re in the middle of the sidewalk.
Before I can be totally humiliated, Sutton surprises me. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, which is a struggle for her because I’m at least three times as broad as she is, and pulls me into her chest—hiding me, letting me recover. So I won’t be embarrassed. Mortified. Humiliated.
“These have to stop,” she whispers in my ear, but there’s no judgment in her voice—just concern, and maybe a tinge of fear. Well, yeah, so I wouldn’t want to watch someone have one of these either. “Please, let me call someone. Just talk to someone.”
“And what?” I wheeze. “Go on medication and become a zombie? I can’t do that. I have a company to run.” My father’s company. I can’t fuck it up.
“No. Just talk. Sometimes, it helps. Have you always had these?”
“No.” It kills me to admit it, but I don’t think I’m capable of pulling off a spectacular lie at the moment.
“Okay. So maybe if you talk to someone, they can help you. Maybe give you some things to do to stop whatever is triggering it or try and help you deal with it when you feel it coming on. There are natural things like tea or something. I don’t know. It doesn’t always have to be drugs, though. But even if it is medication, what’s worse? That, or constantly dealing with this?”
She might have a point there. The point is, I’m scared. I don’t know what these are. I can’t control them. I can’t stop them. And I can’t. Fucking. Sleep. Properly.
“Are you okay?” She pulls away from me a little and looks down into my face. Her eyes look huge from this angle, and her lips are parted. They’re a lovely rosy pink. Beautiful.
Great. Now not only am I a gross mess, but my dick is also trying to break through my pants because she’s looking at me like she really sees me, and I’m finally seeing her, and she’s gorgeous. I also know she’s smart, capable—no, very capable—witty, funny, and decent enough to look after my ass for years with just about no thanks at all.
“I’m sorry,” I croak. God. I haven’t said that and actually meant it in a long time.
Sutton’s face changes. She goes from worried and still a little pissed off to something else. She bites down hard on her lip, drawing my attention there. I want to do that. I want to sink my teeth there, and I want to hear her groan. Preferably my name. Christ. There really is something wrong with me. I do need professional help.
“You know, I’m hungry. I didn’t eat because I was seriously looking forward to something I didn’t have to cook myself.”
“You should have known I’d ruin it.”
She rolls her eyes, digs in her purse, and hands me a few tissues. A not so subtle reminder that I’m still leaking snot and tears and maybe even drool. I mop up my face. I’m sure I’m red after, but at least I could blame it on my own body trying to kill me.
“No. I didn’t think that. I mean, I wouldn’t have put it past you. Maybe I ruined it. I don’t know. I’m sorry I just got up and left. I’m like, really, really hungry, and I think it impeded my judgment. But I don’t want to go back in there. I really hope Janice didn’t see me. I’ll never be able to make a reservation there again.”
“Maybe we should find a new place. Clients are probably getting tired of the same thing all the time.”
Sutton’s eyes narrow. “Uh, I know a good burger place. But it’s nowhere near here.”
“Don’t worry. The car’s fast.”
“I know. And you’re not driving it.”
Now it’s my turn to do a double-take. “No. No way. You drive stick?”
“Ha! No. Not that kind. I think sports clutches are horrible. I’ve heard they are, and my regular standard driving is barely passable. Well, certainly not three hundred thousand dollars certified at least. I thought we could take a cab. Or, if you want, we could just go back to my place. I’d cook something for you.”
“Really?”
“I hope not. Granny would probably slip laxative or something into it to show you. I’m really voting for a burger here. Granny likes that place. I could get her one and bring it back. Shit. Wait. I forgot you don’t eat bread.”
“Maybe they have a gluten-free option.”
“They have really good fries. Or we could go wherever you want. Or nowhere. You probably don’t eat ice cream. Or anything normal.” She winks at me. “Seriously, Philippe. I know we’re not on good standing with each other right now, or at least I’m probably not with you, but I’m worried for real. If no one is telling you this, then I’ll tell you. I’ll be the bad guy if I have to be. Uhhh, even if I wasn’t already.”
“I have an idea, actually. We could go back to my house. Take a cab there. It’s not that far. I’ll get changed, and we’ll figure it out. Or you can take a chance by eating something barely edible from my fridge.”
“Is that my punishment?” She’s already reaching for her phone and punching in the number for a cab.
I’ve soaked through my shirt. I look like I just got
