Twenty-seven

WHEN THEY GOT to Victoria’s front door, Ford noticed that her hand was trembling as she put the key in the lock.

“I can get that.” He gently took the key from her, then unlocked the door and led her inside the loft. He set down both his messenger bag and her briefcase, which a helpful passenger had carried off the train after she’d fainted.

“I should change into some dry clothes,” she said. They’d both had umbrellas for the walk home from the L station, but it was pouring outside and the legs of her pants were soaked.

He combed his fingers though his wet hair. “Me, too. I’ll just prop your front door open with the deadbolt so I can let myself back in.”

She paused at that, but then nodded. “Okay.”

Grabbing his messenger bag, he headed back to his own place. After letting himself in, he ran a hand over his mouth, needing a second to clear his head.

That moment, when Victoria had gone limp on the train and had fallen unconscious into his arms, was something he wouldn’t forget for a long time. If ever. The fear he’d felt thinking something might be seriously wrong, and then the utter relief when she’d opened her eyes, peering up at him with an expression that was so wholly, uncharacteristically vulnerable, it had brought forth a near-violent surge of protectiveness from somewhere deep inside him . . . Those kind of raw, powerful emotions were unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.

He exhaled, not at all sure what to do about that.

For now, however, he needed to focus on her. He quickly stripped out of his wet clothes, toweled off his hair, and threw on jeans and a T-shirt. When he let himself back into Victoria’s loft, he saw that she was still in her bedroom. He didn’t know if her trembling hands meant she was cold from the rain, or in some kind of shock after blacking out, but he figured that drinking something warm would help either way. After rummaging through her kitchen cabinets, he found a mug and chamomile tea, and got a teakettle going on her stove.

She came out of her bedroom, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail and wearing jeans and a loose lightweight sweater. She took a seat on one of the island barstools and watched him pour the hot water over a tea bag in the mug.

“Thank you,” she said.

He noticed she was acting subdued, which was unusual for her. Then again, she’d just fainted on the train—he hardly expected her to be turning cartwheels right then.

He sat down on the barstool next to her and watched as she wrapped her hands around the mug. “You’re shivering. I’ll get you a blanket.” He looked around the room, beginning to wonder whether he was going to have to override her insistence that she didn’t need medical attention. She could fuss and holler all she wanted, but if he got the sense that anything was even slightly off, he’d throw her over his shoulder and carry her to the damn emergency room if he had to.

She shook her head. “It’s fine. The shaking will stop in a few minutes. This happened the last time I fainted, too.”

He was quickly putting the pieces together. Obviously, what had happened today wasn’t simply the product of her skipping lunch. He recalled seeing her on the L platform that Sunday morning a few weeks ago, acting a little oddly, and now realized that she’d been talking herself into getting on the train.

He figured he might as well be direct. “Are you claustrophobic?”

She cocked her head. “Huh. That seems less weird. Sure, let’s go with that.”

He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “How about if we just go with the truth?”

She met his gaze, and then looked down at her tea and took a sip. “The truth. Right.”

*   *   *

VICTORIA AVOIDED FORD’S gaze, finding it hard to look into his eyes when she knew what was coming.

“So, I’ve been having these . . . panic attacks,” she began.

“Panic attacks. Okay.” He exhaled, nodding. “Do they only happen when you’re on the train?”

“In my exercise class, too, and once on an elevator. And the other day, I got a little freaked out when we were in the closet at the Sutters’ open house. But the train has been a particular challenge for me. As you saw firsthand.”

“Is this something that started recently?” he asked.

She smiled slightly. Of course he would have lots of questions—the man always asked questions. “A couple months ago. I had the first one when I was trapped in my closet during the break-in.”

His jaw tightened. “I should’ve asked more questions about the break-in. You didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I—”

“It’s not about the break-in,” she said. “Apparently, that was just the catalyst that brought all these bigger issues to the surface.”

He cocked his head. “What issues?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” She took another sip of her tea, buying a moment. Part of her was tempted to just BS her way out of this conversation. But another part of her wanted—maybe even needed—him to understand why she was the way she was. “According to my therapist, I have a ‘near-compulsive need to always seem okay.’ And also trust, abandonment, and control issues that apparently impact my ability to have healthy relationships.” She shot him a quick glance to see how he reacted.

He exhaled, undoubtedly processing all that. “Okay.”

She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “You asked.”

He appeared to consider his next question carefully. “And did this therapist say why he thinks you have these issues?”

“My childhood. Cliché, right?” she asked, trying to sound glib. Then she turned more serious. “My father leaving, for one thing. And also that my mom tried to commit suicide shortly afterward.”

Ford slid his hand over hers, his voice softening. “Victoria . . . ”

“It’s fine,” she said defiantly, out of habit. “It was a long time ago, it happened, and my mom and I dealt with it. It’s just that there was this moment during the break-in, when I was on the phone with the 9-1-1 dispatcher, that somehow stirred this stuff up all over again. But I don’t want you to think that I’m this person who went through this big tragedy, and that that means—”

He cut her off right there. “What I think is that a lot of people have shit they have to deal with from their childhood. And sometimes, that shit messes you up a little, whether you want it to or not.”

She went quiet as the words fell between them.

He was right. She was messed up. Sure, on the outside, she looked like she completely had her shit together. That was what she wanted people to think, after all—the only side of her she allowed them to see. Yet here she was, the supposedly tough, unflappable, confident Victoria Slade, so afraid of losing control that she’d sent herself into a full-fledged panic attack and had actually blacked out in front of an entire train of people.

Yeah, not exactly “unflappable” there.

She laughed humorlessly, her words dry. “Wow. I could’ve saved myself a ton of money in therapy bills and just talked to you instead.” She slid her hand from Ford’s grasp and stood up. Walking toward the windows, she ran her fingers through her hair and exhaled.

She heard him get up as she looked out the window, and closed her eyes when she felt his strong arms come around her.

“If you and I were alone for an hour in some therapy room, I’m not sure how much actual talking would’ve occurred,” he said.

She felt a bittersweet pang, knowing that he was trying to get a smile out of her. And of course that’s what he would do. As much as it killed her to admit it given their less-than-auspicious start and his quite healthy ego, he was a good guy. A great guy, actually. In addition to all the things she’d told Dr. Metzel, he had a protective streak a mile wide for the people he cared about—and it was that quality, not his eyes or his incredible body or even his wicked, sly charm, that she found most attractive of all.

In an alternate universe, albeit one where a lot more was different than simply the night they’d almost met at The Violet Hour, she could imagine that Ford would be exactly the kind of man she would— Well . . . anyway.

Taking a deep breath, she turned around and met his gaze. “Here’s the thing. After what happened today on the train, I think . . . I probably need to focus right now on this panic stuff and getting my act together.”

“I agree that you should take care of yourself.” He smiled. “But even with the ‘panic stuff,’ you have your act together more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

If you only knew. “No, I mean I need to focus on just these panic attacks. And work, obviously.” She paused. “Meaning, this probably isn’t a good time for me to be involved with anyone.”

For a long moment Ford said nothing, simply studying her with those piercing blue eyes. “You just decided this now?”

She tried to sound nonchalant. “Well, yes.”

“Why?”

“Like I said, after this panic attack, I think I should focus on therapy and—”

“—work,” he finished for her. “Right. The same therapy and work you’ve been doing these past few weeks, the whole time we’ve been involved. But suddenly, now, you need to focus exclusively on that.”

The comment put her on the defensive. “Did you see what just happened to me on the train? Oh, I’m sorry, it must’ve been somebody else who had to carry me off when I was unconscious. I think it’s safe to say that whatever I’ve been doing these past few weeks, it isn’t working.”

She tried walking away, because once again he was too close and she needed to get away from his knowing reporter eyes. But he caught her hand, stopping her.

“Victoria.” He moved closer.

She thought about backing up, but then it really would look like she was running from him. So she held her ground, forcing herself to remain stoic and stifling the urge to lean into his hand when he touched her cheek.

He gazed down at her, his voice husky. “Why are you so afraid of this? Of us?”

She felt an unexpected stinging in her eyes. Instantly, she fought back against her emotions and shoved them down deep. “Ford, I’m so sorry if I led you on in some way.” Her tone was gentle, but firm. “But . . . there is no us.”

He took his hand from her face and backed away a step.

“We agreed this was just a casual thing,” she continued.

“We did,” he said. “And if it is just that, I don’t see why there’s suddenly a problem.”

She tried to play if off. “I’m not saying there’s a problem. But after what happened today, I just . . . want some space.”

“Space.” He ran a hand over his jaw and then nodded. “Okay. Sure. I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone right now, but if that’s what you need, I’ll come back later. How about if I check on you in a couple hours?”

She felt a lump in her throat. That was . . . a really sweet thing for him to offer. “That won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. “What the fuck is going on, Victoria?”

She blinked, caught off guard by his sudden anger. “I told you what’s going on.”

He stepped closer, his expression a mixture of confusion and something else she couldn’t read. “Everything was fine until tonight. But then you faint, and suddenly you’re shoving me out the door.” He paused. “Did I . . . do something wrong?”

“No,” she said emphatically, feeling terrible he would even ask. “Not at all.”

“Then help me understand what’s happening.” His expression softened. “Victoria, talk to me.”

She looked down at the ground, needing a moment, and then met his gaze. “I don’t want to fight with you, Ford.”

He stepped closer, his lips curved in an affectionate smile. “Shockingly, this time I actually don’t want to fight with you, either.”

“But I do want you to go,” she said softly.

He stopped, hearing that.

She saw a brief flicker of emotion in his eyes, but then his expression turned stony. His voice was cool as he backed away from her.

“You know what? Fine. I spent years living with someone who ran hot and cold. Someone who would be my best friend—my fucking hero—one day, and then the next morning he’d wake up hungover—or sometimes even still drunk—and tell me to get the hell out of his face, or backhand me for making too much noise while playing basketball on the driveway.”

She took a step toward him. “Ford.”

“Don’t.” He held up his hand. “You don’t want me around, Victoria? No problem. I’ll get the hell out of your way, no more questions asked.”

Without so much as a second glance, he turned and walked out of her loft, slamming her front door behind him.

When he was gone, Victoria put her hand on her stomach and inhaled slow and deep, just like the good doctor had taught her.

Breathe, Slade.

Just breathe.