I’m beyond counting now—it’s not working anyway.
“The Harringtons are going to skin me alive for this. You know that, right?” Rip grumbles.
I didn’t know who else to call. There was no getting out of the Hideaway Inn without someone with me. The Harringtons have people stationed every two feet around the property, so I told Rip he could either come with me or watch me go.
I kind of liked giving an ultimatum, if I’m being honest. It felt like I’d taken a tiny piece of control back.
“I’ll tell them you didn’t have a choice,” I say. We’re walking the three blocks to the Chug at two in the morning. He syncs his stride to mine while his gaze swivels around us.
Since the Chug is empty at night, Madi gave me a key for when my stories wouldn’t stop coming but I was scaling the walls of my house and needed somewhere else to work. I’ve just never used it until now.
Rip touches his ear. “Copy.” Shaking his head, he mutters a string of curses. “Incoming.”
Less than thirty seconds later, it’s Valen who matches my stride.
Of course he followed.
“You shouldn’t be out here all alone,” he grumbles, his voice thick with sleep. His hair is disheveled, and his sweatshirt’s on backward. He must have dressed himself while running out the door.
“Rip, meet Valen. Valen, meet your very capable employee, Rip.”
“You know what I mean.” Valen tips his head to Rip though. “I don’t care who you take with you. Where you go, I go.”
Unlocking the front door of the Chug, I muscle my way in and turn on all the lights.
“Watch the perimeter,” Valen says. “Get three more guys over here too.” He enters the building, pauses, then sticks his head back out the door. “Thank you, Rip.”
My bodyguard’s lip curls up, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut.
Valen takes a seat in one of the oversized chairs that line the back wall while I pace the length of the building.
“Talk to me,” he says. His quiet demand dulls the needles prickling across my skin.
“I can’t shut off my mind.” I tug my zip-up hoodie around my middle. Funny, I hardly even wore extra layers on our road trip.
“Tell me what’s going on in your head, Honeybee.”
“Everything. Every what-if scenario. Every possible outcome. What if she gets away again? What if she wins? What if she hurts someone? What if?—”
“Clover.” He stands, crosses the room, and takes my hands in his. “You’re spiraling.”
“I know.” My voice wobbles. “But I can’t stop it. Counting doesn’t work. Box breathing makes me hyperventilate. My footwon’t stop tapping, my fingers are bruised from twisting them together. I?—”
His hands cup my face, forcing me to look at only him. “Focus,” he says. “On me.”
I try. I do. But my lungs have deflated, my vision is blurry, and my heart keeps entering triathlons without me.
“I can’t?—”
“You can.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Focus. On. Me. Tell me three things.”
His voice works better than hypnosis.
“Your hands are calloused but gentle,” I whisper.
“That’s one. Two more.”
“The scruff on your jaw sparkles like tinsel in this light.”
