I clap my free hand to my mouth.
He advances, slow and lethal. “What aboutJeffry, Mirabelle?”
His hand lands flat against the wall behind me, and he hunches, caging me in as he lifts my chin on the crook of his knuckle.
Holy…mashed avocados…
My skin buzzes as my functioning shuts down.
“Tell me.”
I would. Really. I wouldloveto say that I was thinking about setting you up on a play date with some local friends, and Jeffry is the first guy who came to mind, but, see, my mind…isn’t working anymore.
What in the world is wrong with me?
Am I terrified?
Imustbe terrified, right?
Except I’m not cold, or clammy, or anxious. And that’s really, really weird, because I amalwaysanxious. Except, maybe, when I’m with Fawn and she can distract me from all the perpetual nerves. Otherwise? Anxiety and I are in a symbiotic relationship.
It’s rather intimate, too.
All things considered, I’m pretty sure Anxiety keeps me up all night. Including, most recently, last night.
When I couldn’t stop thinking abouthim.
I swallow, and Mr. Anders’s knuckle follows the action down my throat, toward my clavicle.
Logically, my knees buckle.
He swears, and then his arm is around my waist, holding me up. “Mirabelle—” Panic crosses his features as I turn to putty and slide right out of his grasp. He’s the only reason I don’t hit the floor harder, because he follows me all the way down to it, bracing my dead weight the best he can.
I am so terribly glad there isn’t a single chance a camera can catch sight of us right now. I don’t even want to think of the lies they’d come up with.
Mouth dry, I whisper, “Mustyou call me by my name?”
His lips part, and he glances down slow, then back up, so quick. “I think…I’ve grown accustomed to it.”
“Oh.”
“Does it bother you?”
Deeply and in ways I don’t even know how to explain. But I think I’ve spent far too much time over the the last day telling him about how little I like him, so I keep my mouth shut.
This, for reasons unknown, results in him combing his fingers through my long hair, skating a light touch across the lace of my hair scarf when he passes it on his way to torment the brown strands. Lower, he repeats, “Does it bother you, Peters?”
In this precise moment, I don’t know what bothers me. I need to say something. Like. Get off me. Or maybe. This isn’t business professional, sir. Or possibly…
Or possibly I’ll just stay quiet, and stare at him, and continue to lose my mind.
One way or another in the silence he seems to regain an understanding of decorum, stops touching me, and rests back onhis heels in a crouch. Arms folded atop his knees, he murmurs, “What about Jeffry?”
“What’s it matter?”
“You’re supposed to be speaking your mind around me.”
“I…am?”
