My heart thuds.
My eyes sting.
My knees wobble, which is extra bad because I’m still squatting on top of the toilet.
In a dress.
I think I have a crush on Simon Luckwood.
And I don’t think it’s because he’s saved me after going on this awful date with me. I don’t think it’s an adrenaline crash, and it’s definitely not that he’s ever been my favorite actor.
It’s—well, it’shim.
He shoulders into the bathroom. “Hold this,” he orders.
I take the bottle without thinking, and then he’s lifting me off the toilet, cradling me in his arms like I’m a precious treasure in need of protecting.
My eyes burn hotter.
“I’m such an asshole,” I whisper.
“Indeed,” he agrees.
It shouldn’t be funny.
It really shouldn’t.
But a snort of laughter escapes me anyway, and just like that—I can breathe again.
My heart can’t quite join my lungs in working right, but I can breathe.
And that, too, makes him heroic in my eyes.
He helped me breathe.
He carries me out of the bathroom, and I wrap my free arm around him and bury my face in his neck to avoid looking at anyone.
Yes, yes, fine.
Also because this is never happening again and if I’m having a fairy-tale-princess moment, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of it before reality destroys it all.
I could tell him that I can walk.
That I’m fine. Just a bit wobbly. It’ll pass now that I’m out of there.
But he’s carrying me down the hallway as if I’m light as a feather, and he smells like my dad used to—like bergamot and patchouli and safety—and I don’t want to let go.
“Is this another situation like you parking three inches over the line even though you claimed you were right on it?” he murmurs to me.
It takes me a minute to realize what he’s asking.
Did you fake being locked in the bathroom the way you faked having your bus on the line instead of three inches over?
“No,” I whisper.
“So you’re terrified of fireandconfined spaces?”
“No. Yes. Sure.”
