Counting on You (Amarillo Sour, #1) Read online

  “Haleigh.” His voice was steady and strong. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

  “No,” she gasped.

  “You’ve got this. You can do it.” He sucked in a deep breath then, his chest rising and falling behind her. “Just like that, baby. In.” He breathed in through his nose slowly, held it for a beat, then let it out again. “And out. Can you do that for me?”

  This time she nodded, letting him guide her through the breathing with his words of encouragement and example.

  Once she was breathing, he adjusted his hold and helped her raise her hands over her head. “Keep holding them up there. Just like that. You’ve got this. Are you sure I can’t grab you something? Maybe some water?”

  She nodded. “Bottle. In the drawer.”

  If he thought it was strange she kept a spare bottle of water in her nightstand, he didn’t point it out.

  Retrieving it, he twisted off the cap and held the bottle to her lips. “Here. Drink this. I’ve got it. You keep those arms up.”

  It seemed like hours passed as she sat there, arms going numb while she took breaths between sips. Finally, at long last, she could breathe on her own. The crushing weight lifted a pound at a time, until it was gone. She collapsed against Ian then. Too depleted to care if he thought she was a freak.

  They stayed like that for a while. More minutes passed. Slowly, her control returned, and with it her strength.

  He kissed the side of her head. “You don’t have to say anything. But if you want to talk . . . I’m here. I’m listening.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Yes, I do.” She turned in his arms to regard him. Though it was still dark, she could just make out the line of his jaw, the shapes of his eyes. “Thank you for helping me through that.”

  He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

  “What you did . . .” She rested her head against him. “Thank you.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “You kept it from happening again. That’s a lot more than nothing.”

  He started to speak but stopped. Instead, he rested his chin against her head again. Based on the way he’d gone into action, he must have figured out what had happened. If she had to guess, he’d done a Google search and come up with the best ways to treat a panic attack.

  But Google wouldn’t have all the answers he undoubtedly needed. He’d want to know what set her off. More, he probably wanted to know if this happened often. They were reasonable questions. Ian was nothing if not reasonable. She probably owed it to him to explain. To tell him everything about both. Then again . . .

  If she told him, he’d know the worst part about her. It wasn’t pretty. Not by a long shot. While he had been beyond helpful and wonderful this time, he might not want to know it would happen again. He might not want to be her rock.

  Greg hadn’t wanted to either.

  Could she really blame him? She wouldn’t choose this if it was up to her.

  Then again . . . After what he’d done for her—after he’d been so patient and understanding—she should give him the benefit of the doubt. He deserved no less.

  “I had my first panic attack freshman year of college.” She moistened her lips, which were somehow dry even after chugging a bottle of water. “I didn’t know what it was. While it was happening, I thought I was dying. But then it passed, and I moved on. A few weeks later, I had another. Then another. By the time I was up to number four, my roommate dragged me to student health in case I was having heart troubles.”

  Heart troubles. She couldn’t help smirking at those words. In a way, she had been having heart troubles, but of another kind.

  “The on-call doctor, who obviously had way too big of a workload for one day, wasn’t particularly patient or understanding. He downplayed the whole thing. He assured me I wasn’t dying or having cardiac failure. He told me I just needed to relax.”

  As if it was that easy.

  “I was . . . embarrassed. I probably would’ve gone back to my dorm room and refused to ever talk about it again if a nurse hadn’t pulled me aside.” She absently traced patterns in the back of his hands. “She told me it sounded like I had anxiety. That those really bad moments were panic attacks. And she referred me to one of the counselors.”

  The whiskers on his chin stuck to her hair as he nodded. “Did that help?”

  “Some. Of course, the counseling center was overbooked all the time. It was hard to get in for meetings. They put me on medication.” She covered his hands, pulling his arms tighter around her. “I only took them for a year. While they helped with the anxiety some, they left me feeling . . . blank. Tired. Like I wasn’t myself. The doctor—a new one, because I’d moved back home by then—offered to give me another prescription to help with those symptoms, but . . . it wasn’t a long-term solution for me.”

  “Right.”

  She wondered what that meant. Right, he’d heard her? Right, that made sense? Right, she was crazy? He’d said it so softly she couldn’t detect his tone to analyze it and figure out his meaning.

  It didn’t matter. She had to finish explaining what she’d started.

  “Greg stayed at college. He said we could try long-distance. That he’d be faithful. That we’d make it work. But . . .”

  “He didn’t try. He didn’t stay faithful. He didn’t make it work.”

  “He didn’t. The whole thing made him uncomfortable. He said panic attacks were for weak people.” She shook her head. “I should have known.”

  “That’s not your fault.”

  “By the time we officially ended things, I realized he was seeing other women behind my back. Almost from the beginning and . . .” This was the part she had to tell him. She couldn’t hold it off any longer. “And he’d started rumors with our high school friends. About how I was crazy. How I was too much work. How I’d had a total meltdown. He wasn’t completely wrong—”

  “He was trying to make excuses to cover his own behavior.” Ian tensed behind her. “It’s too bad we want to make a good impression at the reunion, because I’d really like to . . .”

  “What? Fight?” She cracked her first grin in what seemed like forever. “You’re not exactly the ‘meet me at the bike racks’ type are you?”

  “I’d be up for giving it a shot.” His hands moved up and down her arms, then, soothing her as they did. His voice lost some of its edge when he spoke again. “What happened after you transferred schools?”

  “I worked with a counselor to find other ways to self-cope. I started exercising.” People had thought she was doing it to lose weight. While she wasn’t overweight, gym class had never been her favorite subject. “I drank more water and ate better. It helped me feel better physically, which put me in better shape to deal with attacks when I could feel one coming on.”

  He gave her another squeeze but didn’t comment.

  “Usually, I can head it off. Going for a walk—or a run—helps me channel that rush of adrenaline into something else. I repeat a list of five things that make me happy in my head, over and over. And”—she swallowed hard—“if it gets really bad, I call my counselor. I misjudged this time. I was changing into my workout clothes to try a run, but . . . it was too late.”

  More silence.

  “That’s when you came. I’m glad you did. I would’ve gotten through it, but . . . it’s been a long time since I’ve had a full-fledged panic attack. It would’ve taken a lot more out of me.” She paused, willing him to speak—to say anything. When he didn’t, she filled the silence herself. “I should’ve been better prepared. With everything going on—everything with the girls, some drama with one of my students, the reunion—I haven’t been taking care of myself. By the time I left work with such a long to-do list . . . I was barely hanging on.”

  “What’s on your to-do list?”

  She almost sighed in relief that he was finally speaking, that he was still there. Instead, she recited each item to him,
his chin bopping the top of her head as he nodded along.

  “Right,” he said again, once she’d finished. “Well, how about we have a little snack—drink some water—and go to sleep? Then, in the morning, we can get started.”

  Her heart beat a little faster in her chest. This time it was delight that sent it racing. “We can get started?”

  “Sure. I have time.”

  With his launch coming up in a few more days, she doubted he did. Much as she wanted to depend on someone else to help shoulder the load, she couldn’t. Much as she wanted him there, she had to give him an out.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “It’ll be fun . . . or at least interesting.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “Besides, you can try to kick me out, but I’m not going anywhere.” Then he said those four words that always seemed to bring her calm. Four words she was starting to believe. “I’ve got your back.”

  He had her back. She wanted to give him more. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she wanted to give all of herself to someone. In a blink, her strength returned, and with it her resolve.

  When he moved to kiss her cheek, she lifted her lips to meet his. He started at the surprise move but quickly adapted. His mouth moved against hers, nibbling and savoring in sweet, gentle sips. She slipped her arms over his shoulders, pulling him closer as the hunger took over. Leaning back against the pillows, she took him with her, deepening the kiss further still. Even as she grew more bold, he held back. That was just like him, always protecting her rather than giving in to whatever might be going on inside of him.

  If it was half as intense as the want and desire inside of her, it had to be killing him. Most of the time, she admired that restraint. Not now. Right now, she wanted him as unrestrained as she felt.

  She moved a hand down his chest, feeling him through the thin material of his T-shirt. His muscles came alive under her fingertips, yet he still held back. Not to be deterred, she reached for his waistband, slipping her fingertips just below the rise of his jeans.

  He froze. Pushing himself up, he stared down into her face. He opened his mouth but closed it again. His brow knit together, and he went through the motions of trying to speak but stopping twice more. It was too dark in the room to tell, but she wondered if his cheeks were flushed. Flustered was usually her role. She was torn between laughing at their change in positions. It was oddly empowering.

  Staring into her eyes, Ian shook his head. “We don’t have to—”

  “I know we don’t.” That was part of why she wanted to take this step with him. She could be vulnerable with him, and he wouldn’t bolt. He’d just shown her that. Maybe that was what emboldened her to reach for him again.

  He pulled back another inch. “But are you sure?”

  “Completely.” She grazed the sensitive spot below his ear, earning a low moan for her efforts.

  His shoulders relaxed, enough for her to pull him a few inches closer, bringing the curve of his neck within reach of her lips. “But . . . it’s been a . . . difficult evening.”

  “And I got through it. We got through it.”

  “We did, but—”

  This time she pulled back, her brow furrowed. “I want you.” There, she’d said it. The words were out there. Now, she just had to wait for him to respond.

  With every second that passed, she worried that maybe she was being pushy. Maybe he was the one who wasn’t ready. Maybe he didn’t want her like that.

  No. She shook her head. She could feel the evidence of his want against her. If he held back now, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to be with her. It was his sense of chivalry, of duty. While she adored him for that, she also wanted him to know she was ready. That he didn’t need to hold back anymore.

  So, she said it again. “I want you.” And, because the doubt wouldn’t quite leave her, she couldn’t resist asking, “Don’t you—”

  “Of course, I do,” he rushed out, finally breaking his stupor and easing the pit in her stomach. “All the time. But I need to make sure . . . you’re sure. It’s a big step.”

  “It is.”

  “Huge.”

  “Pretty much the biggest.” Now that they’d cleared the air and established that she wanted him and he wanted her, why were they still talking? Not to feed into every dating stereotype, but wasn’t he supposed to be the one coaxing her into bed?

  Granted, they were already in bed, but they were still clothed.

  “I just—”

  “Ian.” She cupped his cheeks between her hands. “I’m not sure how exactly to put this, but the only thing holding us back right now is your concern. Not mine.”

  His lips curved up slowly. “So, I’m the one with a hang-up?”

  “Exactly. And if we’re not going to finish what we started, then we probably need to take cold showers. Separately.”

  “I’ve never had to take a cold shower.”

  “Me neither. I’m not sure I’d like it. So . . .” She traced the line of his jaw, her stomach fluttering at how comfortable it felt to touch him this way. “Are we doing this or not?”

  He was still laughing when his mouth took hers again. This time, he didn’t hold back.

  After, they lay there together, tangled up in each other until sleep came. When it did, it brought a peace she hadn’t known in far too long.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For what had to be at least the twentieth time in half as many minutes, Ian checked on the lasagna baking in the oven. According to the directions on the box, he was supposed to remove the aluminum lid after forty-five minutes and let the cheese brown. He didn’t want to miss that crucial step.

  He was making Haleigh dinner tonight. Or, rather, he was heating up dinner for her. Semantics aside, it was the first time he’d invited her over to his place for dinner. He didn’t want to screw it up.

  When the latest check—which might have included him sticking a finger in the middle of the dish—revealed that the lasagna was still partially frozen, he turned his attention to making a salad. He’d never made one—not without his mom standing there calling out orders.

  Staring at the freshly washed ingredients on the counter, he wondered if he should have just ordered takeout. He was good at ordering. The pile of old cardboard and plastic cartons he’d taken out to the recycling bins—along with the other junk that had stacked up during the past couple of months—proved it.

  It was too late now, he supposed. Haleigh was due any moment. Now that they were through her difficult weekend, and the weight of the pressure seemed to be behind them, he wanted tonight to be special.

  With more resolve, he placed a tomato in the center of his never-before-used cutting board. He selected a knife from the set his mom had given him for Christmas a few years before. Taking a deep breath, he held the knife over the tomato and sliced. The nearly equal halves rolled to the side. There. That wasn’t too hard. He raised the knife to make another cut when a rapping on the door interrupted him. He jumped, then cursed at himself for being jumpy.

  It was just dinner, for crying out loud. It wasn’t like he was asking her to move in or run away with him.

  Still shaking his head at himself, he opened the door.

  On the other side, Haleigh was looking fresh and entirely too feminine in a light blue dress that seemed to flow. While he’d logged a few hours at the office the evening before, she’d gone shopping. This must be one of her new finds. And it worked—for her and him.

  A bottle of wine cradled in one arm and a brown paper sack dangling from the other, she dazzled him with a bright smile. “Hello there.”

  Some of the tension eased from his shoulders. “Hey.”

  “Do you usually answer the door with your arsenal?”

  “What?”

  “Were you worried I was a burglar?” She nodded to the knife still gripped in his hand. “Or is that how you greet your dinner guests?”

  “Oh, sorry.” He practically tossed the knife onto the counter bef
ore pulling the door open wider. “Come on in.”

  Chuckling lightly, she stepped inside. Ian wrapped an arm around her waist to give her a proper greeting. Maybe a strong, mind-numbing kiss would distract her before she could tease him again. Or at least it would keep him from being skittish. A second before their lips met, Haleigh’s eyes narrowed, and she pulled back, leaving him to graze her cheek as she stepped away.

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “That.” She slipped out of his grasp again and walked down the hallway, pausing in front of a frame. “Is that a . . . picture of a plant?”

  He gritted his teeth. The picture in question was a framed portrait of two green leaves in a glass of water. Stepmom Number Two had given it to him. Another Christmas present. He didn’t even know what kind of leaves they were. She’d said it didn’t matter. It was meant to inspire him. Something about the glass of water being half empty or half full. He couldn’t remember. At the time, he’d planned to store it safely in the back of his closet. Unfortunately, she’d insisted on hanging it herself. He’d meant to take it down after, but like many other things in his apartment—and life—he just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

  The way Haleigh was staring at it now, questions clearly wanting to be asked, he wished he’d made more of an effort. And, he decided, he should really buy more of his own things. His whole apartment was apparently furnished by his mothers, past and present.

  “Can I pour you some wine?” he asked.

  She held up the bottle. “Show me to the glasses and corkscrew and I’ll pour. It looks like you’ve done enough already.”

  He led her to the kitchen and pointed to the cupboard and drawer she’d need, then turned back to making the salad.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, pouring the glasses. “I needed to get Rudy settled in and stop by the store. But all will be forgiven in a minute. I brought a treat.”

  Handing him one of the glasses, she turned to the bag and removed a jar of chocolate syrup and whipped cream.

  “Whoa.”