There’s also sadness mixed in there, because… I do miss music. And my music career is over. And that’s really fucking sad. And… I’m afraid.
But what am I afraid of? A guitar? That’s ridiculous.
As I sit there, I’m anticipating the fast heartbeat, shallow breathing, and dizziness of a panic attack. But it doesn’t happen. My brain is a jumble of thoughts and feelings and my stomach is knotted… but I’m not melting down.
I jump to my feet and pace over to the window to stare out. Everything is blue and white—the sky, the snow—so bright it’s blinding. I turn away and stalk back across the room.
A soft knock on the door has my head turning. “Nikki,” Marek calls softly. “Talk to me.”
“I’m pissed at you!” I shout, then scrunch up my face and let my head fall back.
He doesn’t answer.
“You shouldn’t have done that!” I cry. “It’s not up to you!”
It’s not. It’s my life. My choice. Nobody gets to make decisions for me. Mom and Dad assume I’m going to go back to touring, but they haven’t pushed it. I didn’t like it when Blake pushed. Harper’s been prodding me, too, although her approach is a little softer than Blake’s. And now Marek. The one person I’ve felt safe with. It’s like… a betrayal.
My chest aches and I sit on the bed again, dropping my head forward. Why did he have to do that?
And now what do I do? I want to get out of here. But we’re supposed to stay a few more days. This afternoon we planned to go to a couple of wineries, then have dinner at an amazing restaurant in Afton. Tomorrow we were going to go snowshoeing and spend the afternoon at the hammam.
I pout.
The door opens. Marek pokes his head in. “Are you okay?”
I glare at him. “No. I’m mad.”
“I get that.” He grimaces. “And I’m sorry.”
“I want to go home.”
His face falls. “Really?”
I slump. “No.”
“Talk to me. Tell me what you’re mad about.”
I let out an exhalation strong enough to sail a boat.
He approaches, sits next to me, and takes one of my hands in his. “What’s going on?” he asks softly. “My bringing your guitar upset you.”
“Yeah.” My throat clogs. I sigh again. “I’m afraid.”
“What are you afraid of?”
I swallow thickly. “I’m afraid… I can’t do it.”
“I think you can do anything. But I’m not going to force you to play the guitar or sing. I knew it was risky, bringing it. I wasn’t sure how you’d react. I’m sorry I upset you.”
I drop my gaze to his hand holding mine. His big, strong hand, with long, lean fingers. “I’m not having a panic attack.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“Yeah. I think the yoga helped. Or maybe all the orgasms.”
He chokes out a laugh. “Orgasmsaregood for stress relief.”
I smile reluctantly. “I felt betrayed,” I say. “I felt safe with you. And you did that.”
