Bea
I hate small spaces.
Hatethem.
Like the way Ryker hates flame. That’s how much I hate them. And Rykerhaaatesflame.
This bathroom is a fraction of the size of the jail cell that had me almost in a panic attack a week ago.
And it’s a full story and a half above the ground, and the window is too high and too small to climb out of, and I’m going to die.
So I’m not thinking clearly enough as I huddle against the door, rattling the knob and trying to make it let me out, to actually process that Simon’s serious about being my hero.
The massivethumpthat rattles the door has me scrambling back though.
As far back as I can go in this little room with the tile floor and lone high window that’s barely big enough for the pedestal sink and ancient toilet when my knees are shaking and my breath is coming in short bursts, anyway.
“Bloody hell,” he says, his voice muffled by the thick wood. “That wasn’t aimed right, was it?”
My legs bump into the toilet, and I quickly shut the old wood lid and climb onto it.
My heart is racing. I’m sweating like I’ve been in a sauna for an hour instead of trapped in a bathroom for ten minutes.
This adventure will pass the rocking chair test tomorrow.
Right now, I need to get the hell out of here.
I didn’t break the doorknob on purpose.
I really, really didn’t.
I just wanted to stare at myself in the mirror and give myself a little pep talk about howI can do this, and instead—well, instead, karma decided to remind me that I shouldn’t use people.
There’s another thud, but this one is accompanied by the crack of splintering wood. The door flies inward, making a breeze hard enough to lift the wispy flyaways of my hair that have escaped the fancy ’do Daphne put it in.
And then Simon steps into the open doorway, his sleeves rolled up his forearms, his hair slightly disheveled, tie loose, with a bottle of champagne in one hand while his other hand hangs casually at his side.
Likeno big deal.
Likejust busted a door down to save my date.
While holding a bottle of champagne.
He eyes me, takes a swig off the bottle, and then pulls a face like he got bubbles up his nose.
My heart hiccups.
He’s handsome and funny and innately charming, and just looking at him is calming my racing pulse.
He shifts his gaze to the broken door, splintered where the knob was, slightly crooked on its hinges now, and he nods as if he’s pleased with the work he’s done.
“There now. That does it. Come along, Bea.”
Tank is deeper in the hallway, holding Jake in some kind of twisted-up position.
More people are beyond, staring at us.
At least two are holding phones aimed directly at me.
