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Let’s be honest. I’m in over my head.
My heart begins to pound in my chest. My body feels chilled, but my palms bead with sweat. That annoying swooshing sound flows through my ears, and it seems almost like I’m floating.
Anxiety. Of course you’d make an appearance today.
Quickly, I start to stand, sliding from the chair. “Th-thank you,” I mutter to the stylist before I make a beeline for Hudson. “I want to go now.” My teeth clatter together. “I … really need to leave.”
I bolt out of the salon and onto the sidewalk, feeling Hudson’s presence right behind me as I walk faster. I’m not trying to run away from him. I know I’m not fast enough to get away from a guy in that good of shape. The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m scared. And I’m worried. And I’m freaking falling apart at the goddamn seams.
His large hand wraps around the top of my arm, keeping me next to him. “Not sure where you think you’re running off to, but don’t try anything stupid.”
I try to suck in a breath, but it feels like I’m having a heart attack. “I can’t breathe,” I cry, grabbing my chest. “I … I can’t … breathe!” This time, I yell the words, panic setting in my bones as the air becomes harder and harder to find.
Looking around, he takes my hand and pulls me between the two buildings. “Breathe, Dove.” His deep voice speaks calmly before he rubs my back as I lean over, putting my hands on my legs. “Keep breathing. That’s it.”
Tears cloud my vision, and I feel paralyzed. Like … someone injected me with a crippling drug.
“It’s okay,” he says, somehow keeping his gruff voice calming. “You’re all right.”
My bottom lip trembles, and my throat burns as I swallow back the thick lump of emotion that’s lodged its way so pleasantly in there.
Hudson’s massive arms wrap around me as he forces me to stand up straight before hugging my body tightly. I feel so small in his giant arms—small … and safe.
“You’re okay, Briar. Just keep breathing.”
For whatever reason, I melt against him, letting him hold me like a child as I continue to lose my shit, allowing him to put me back together. I might not know this man, but right now, he’s all I have.
I have no idea how much time passes as he keeps my body snug with his own. But little by little, my heart begins to pump slower, and the tears start to dry.
And when I gaze up, he looks at me. For the first time … he really looks at me.
Once we’re in the car, she’s quiet. Too quiet.
From the moment I watched her big eyes stare at herself in the mirror after the stylist turned her chair around, I knew she was going to lose it. The panic in her eyes was clear, and there was no hiding that everything that’d transpired in her life lately was catching up with her. All because of a damn hair color.
And when she began to freak out, losing it right before me, I had to get her out of sight and off that sidewalk. Over here, Enzo is a celebrity. The last thing she needs is the paparazzi plastering pictures of her having a meltdown all over the news. Thank fuck I didn’t see any around. After Enzo had gotten pissed off that I didn’t force her to change out of leggings on the wedding-dress shopping day, I can’t imagine what he’d do if there were pictures of his fiancée crying her eyes out on some random sidewalk. Oh, and being that close to me probably wouldn’t go over too well either.
I held her, wanting to be the guy to calm her down, even though it’s not my job—not to mention, I could get in a fuck ton of trouble if anyone knew. But I’d do it over again because she needed me. Hell, to be honest, I didn’t want it to end.
And as fucked up as it sounds … I loved that she needed me. And I loved even more that I could swoop in and save her. But that’s not what I should be doing. And I need to smarten my ass up.
“Everything good back there?” I ask, glancing back at her.
Keeping her focus out the window, she sits mutely. “Everything is perfect,” she utters, and even if it wasn’t intentional, the sarcasm in her voice is obvious.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” I toss back. “If you don’t like your hair, just say it.”
Silence. That’s what I’m met with.
Her slender shoulders sink as she stares off at absolutely nothing. She isn’t eager to open up to me. She doesn’t trust me, which is good. She shouldn’t trust me. After all, I’m not the man she thinks I am. Hercules isn’t even my last name, for fuck’s sake.
“I do like my hair,” she finally whispers, her voice so quiet that I barely hear her.
“And that’s a problem because it wasn’t your decision in the first place,” I guess. “You like your hair color, even though it was chosen for you by a man you’re being forced to marry.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, confusion and shock written all over her face. “It’s fine,” she finally mutters before offering a small smile. “It’ll just take some getting used to. That’s all.”
She’s wary of me and my intentions. She thinks I’ll tell her scumbag fiancé that she’s upset. If only she knew that I’ve got my own secrets. Ones that solely involve taking him down.
