Page 15

LIES, THIGHS, AND ALIBIS

Mikayla

The old barn wasn't the prettiest place for a grown woman to have a nervous breakdown, but I'd always appreciated places that didn't expect me to impress them and where I could be alone.

Unfortunately, Damon Lockhart had never gotten that memo.

Of course it was Damon.

Because apparently having a panic attack in a dusty barn wasn't humiliating enough. The universe had decided I needed an audience. And not just any audience.

Damon The Heartbreaker Lockhart.

Six-foot-something of broad shoulders, hard muscle, tattooed forearms, and a face that should've come with a warning label. His dark hair always looked like he'd just rolled out of bed after doing something indecent, and his hazel eyes had a way of making a woman forget every sensible decision she'd ever made.

Including me.

Which was infuriating.

Because every single time I saw Damon, my stomach did this ridiculous little series of flip-flops, like a teenage girl spotting her crush across the cafeteria.

Every. Single. Time.

It had been happening for two years, and frankly, I was getting sick of it.

I was a thirty-year-old CEO. I negotiated multimillion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. I had stared down hostile board members, ruthless competitors, and a billionaire investor who'd once told me to smile more.

Yet one crooked grin from Damon Lockhart and my internal organs apparently wanted to join Cirque du Soleil.

Pathetic.

And the worst part?

He knew exactly how good-looking he was.

Not in an arrogant, constantly-checking-his-reflection kind of way. No, that would've made him easier to dismiss. Damon wore his appeal with the careless confidence of a man who'd never had to work for anyone's attention.

He just showed up. Smiled. And women lost their damn minds.

I refused to be one of them.

My stomach, unfortunately, had not received that directive. But right now, my body had more pressing issues. My lungs were going full-tilt alarm, I was struggling to breathe like I'd just sprinted a marathon while being chased by a serial killer. My heart was double-thumping against my ribs, my vision had narrowed, and everything sounded like it was coming from underwater.

Panic attacks were relatively new territory, but over the past couple of years, I'd gotten exceptionally adept at hiding them. If St. Claire Global ever went under, maybe I could pivot career paths to professional anxiety sufferer.

There had to be a market for that.

As far as witnesses to my current state, Damon seemed well-versed in what to do or not to do. He didn't tell me to calm down or offer some useless advice about breathing into a paper bag.

He just sat beside me and only spoke when spoken to.

I kept my eyes forward, but my peripheral vision was highly tuned.

His faded T-shirt stretched across a chest that had absolutely no business being that broad. The sleeves hugged his biceps, and the tattoos winding down his forearms disappeared beneath the fabric in ways that made me curious about exactly how far they went.

Not that I cared.

Obviously.