She swallowed hard, the butterflies that had been lingering in her stomach suddenly having multiplied into a full-fledged swarm.
Oh, God. No.
She looked away from Ford, focusing instead on the rain dripping down from the overhang as she fought back the tightening in her chest.
Breathe, Slade.
“Victoria—are you okay?” Ford asked. “Say something.”
She took a moment to collect herself, and then faced him. “I just . . . want to go home.”
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 . . . ”