Page 35 of The Pleasure of Panic

She moans.

Thank fuck. “Issy,” I say again. “Can you hear me?”

“Whaaaaaa…”

“I think you fainted, Issy. Open your eyes. You’re OK, do you hear me? You’re OK, you just fainted. You’re fine. Just open your eyes.”

She shifts her body, turning over on her side. I can’t see her face because it’s covered by her long, dark hair.

“You’re OK,” I repeat. “You’re fine, all right? You just fainted. It’s gonna pass. Just… try to breathe and open your eyes.”

She does more than that because suddenly she’s up on her hands and knees, her whole body swaying.

“Don’t get up!” I say. “Just be still, breathe, and open your eyes and look at me, Issy. Do you hear me? Look. At. Me.”

She collapses again. Her breathing is heavy, almost a pant. Like she’s having a panic attack or something.

“What… what happened?” she mumbles.

“You fainted, that’s all. No big deal. Happens to everyone. It’s gonna pass really quick, OK? You’re fine.”

“My heart,” she moans.

“No,” I say. “It’s a trick. I promise. Your heart is fine, just breathe through your nose for a few minutes. It’s a trick. You got overwhelmed and—”

“Shut up!”

Her yell catches me off guard. So much so that I do. I shut up.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t need your words. I don’t need you to tell me when things are and are not OK. So shut the hell up!”

“There she is.” I chuckle, relaxing my head on the floor again.

She starts making mad grabs at her hair, pushing it away from her eyes. We’re only inches apart— face to face—when her gaze finds mine. Her beautiful blue eyes look like shining sapphires right now. “I don’t need your help.”

“Obviously,” I say. But I feel better. Relieved. I mean, yeah, if she was really hurt and didn’t wake up, I’d be stuck here trying to get myself free. And then, with my luck, Declan would show up before I managed that and… yeah.

The last thing I need is a rescue.

But that’s not why I’m relieved.

She’s OK. She just fainted. She got overwhelmed and scared and who can blame her? It’s been a pretty messed-up night for her.

“You can untie me now,” I say.

“No.” She gets back on her hands and knees, her head hanging, her long hair brushing against the floor as she sways a little. And then she’s on her feet. One hand covering her eyes, the other holding onto the back of the couch so she doesn’t fall over again.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Her hand flies away from her face and she spits, “You can’t hurt me.”

“I know,” I say, pulling every FBI trick out of my hat to keep her calm and see reason. “I mean, I know that now. You’re pretty tough, chick. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

She huffs air, stumbles across the room, hand outstretched, reaching for the small dinette table, and feels her way around it until she’s leaning on the formica kitchen counter in front of the sink. She turns on the tap, sticks her mouth into the flowing water, and drinks.

“Hey,” I call. “I could use a drink too.”

She pulls back, wipes her hand across her mouth—little droplets of water spilling down her chin —and laughs. “Do you keep whiskey here?”