Page 25 of Property of my Boss

Well, fuck. That dream ended quickly.

Chapter Twelve

Tilly

I mean the words I’m saying. There’s something about Tucker that makes me want to trust him. It’s probably the confidence. He very assuredly knows that he needs control, and my twisted-up brain can’t get enough of it.

I sink into his big hand as we walk past the bandstand, a group of teenage fiddlers plucking away on their instruments like they’ve been playing for two centuries. “I’ve always wanted to learn the fiddle.” I glance up at him as we walk, my thighs clenching again at how big and strong he feels next to me.

“Yeah? Still could.” He gestures toward the stage. “You’d win hands down.”

“You’re probably right.” I grin. “I’d be too good at it. Maybe I’ll just dream about it for a while longer. What have you always wanted to try?”

“Hmm,” he squeezes my hand gently as we pass by a booth of candy apples, “relaxation. That’d be nice for a change. I don’t think my brain even understands the concept of slowing down anymore. There’s always some perceived threat that’s on its way.”

“That could be because you’ve had them everywhere for years. You should be able to relax eventually, though, right? You’ve done your time, you’ve got Serenity Pines, and you’ve got—”

“I, ugh, I should tell you something, princess.” He stops and turns toward me, his dropped tone leading me to believe whatever he’s about to say is going to be serious.

I don’t want serious. I don’t want to hear how he’s suddenly afraid of commitment or how me stupidly calling him Daddy was too much too soon. I don’t want to hear about how things could never work with us because of my brother or the million other reasons. This is ridiculous. I just want to hold his hand and walk back to his truck while we keep playing pretend.

“Yeah,” I swallow hard and stare at him, “what’s up?”

There’s a long moment where his dark eyes sit with mine, not a single word said. This must be bad.

God, maybe he does know what happened to Wren! Maybe I’m insanely naïve and he’s about to prove me right!

I’m waiting for him to speak when I overhear a teenage girl behind us going on about the boys playing fiddle on stage. Apparently, one of them is her boyfriend, and she’s excited because he’s taking her for ice cream after he’s done playing.

It’s so sweet and wholesome, and my chest is all warm and fuzzy until the heavy scent of some very strong, cheap perfume wafts in the wind toward me and she’s still spritzing.

“Jesus,” Tucker groans, “that’s awful.”

I nod and try to cover my face as I move, but the wind has caught the scent, and it’s sending it straight into my airways.

Since I was a kid, certain scents like this have been a top trigger for my asthma. Fresh-cut grass, nothing. Natural pine, cedar, fresh flowers, nothing. But if I get a patient who’s ready to discharge and starts spraying their body spray, I’m like a bee being gassed out of a honeycomb.

I bend forward, my chest tightening as I search my bag for my inhaler.

“What’s wrong?” Tucker’s hand is on my back.

“Inhaler,” I manage through a tight throat, still rummaging through my purse.

He takes it from my hand and dumps the contents onto the grass, every pen and tube of ChapStick I’ve been carrying now sprawled out onto the festival grounds as I crawl onto the grass and search for the pink inhaler I’ve been carrying around most of my life.

When we don’t see it right away, he dials for an ambulance before bending down next to me, his voice echoing through the crowd, “We need an inhaler! She’s having an asthma attack!”

I can’t believe this is happening. I never leave without my inhaler, and I’ve left twice this week without it.

I sit with my back straight as I try and take breaths through my nose. You’d think the fresh air would dissipate the smell some, but I think the smoke from the barbeque tent wafting this way is making everything worse.

A moment later, the man from the hiking trail appears. The one with the supposedly broken leg. “You’re okay,” he says, brushing my hair back away from my face as he hands me an inhaler he’s had tucked into his pocket.

The second the plastic is against my lips, he rests his hand on the back of my head, and pushes down on the capsule until the cold corticosteroids are in my throat. It takes a second to permeate, but my lungs begin to relax immediately.

“Jesus Christ,” Tucker groans, his heavy body on the ground next to me. “Thank fucking God.” He leans down and kisses my forehead. “Are you okay? You’re getting air now?”

I nod and he holds his hand out toward the man from the hike in a gesture of thanks I’m not expecting, considering he wanted to beat the hell out of him earlier. “Thanks, man.” He blows out a breath as though he’s trying to regulate his nervous system. “Thank God you were here. I’ve got the ambulance on its way, but I think we’re still going to the hospital to get this one checked out.”