“Maybe. But you didn’t see his face when he asked about Zoe. He was teary-eyed.”
Ford grunted. “Probably freaking out over how he’s going to pay child support for two kids, and for a divorce lawyer, once his wife hears about this alleged ‘break’ they were on and kicks him to the curb for good.”
She nudged him. “Let’s just see how this plays out.”
This is Chicago, said the train’s automated PA system as they pulled into the station. Doors open on the right at Chicago.
Victoria exhaled. She was halfway home, with only two stops to go. Reassured by this, she began to feel proud of her progress, when—
The doors sprang open and all hell broke loose.
A large group of teenagers wearing yellow camp T-shirts clambered onto the train, laughing, chanting some kind of cheer, and pushing each other around.
“Stay together!” someone called out as the group shoved their way inside the already crowded train. To make room, the people at the front of the aisle moved toward the back of the car.
Having no choice, Victoria moved back, too.
It was an extremely tight fit. The people in the aisle were packed in with barely enough room to breathe, awkwardly jostling one another as the train began to pull away from the station. Ford put one hand on her hip, steadying her. With her shoulder pressed against his chest, he shrugged off their situation with the ease of a commuter who’d been in this situation many times before.
“Beats trying to find a cab in the rain,” he said.
Yes. Sure. For normal people.
“That’s true,” she managed to say. She gripped the handle on the back of the seat next to her, suddenly feeling as though it had become uncomfortably warm in the train car.
Please, not now.
She forced herself to say something—anything. “So what was your interview about?”
Ford chatted on, while she silently tried to pull herself together. But every time she’d get into her relaxation techniques—I feel quiet, my shoulders are loose—he would ask her a question, or pause for her to comment. And of course he would, because to him this was just a normal, everyday conversation between two people riding the subway home—not exposure therapy for a goddamn mental disorder.
My legs and feet feel warm and heavy.
As they pulled into the Division station, she had a decision to make. She could get off the train now, which would look really odd since they lived only one stop away, and clue Ford into the fact that something was amiss. Or she could suck it up, and stay put.
The Division station and her stop, Damen, were so close. Only about a two-minute train ride apart.
She made up her mind.
She was going to finish this thing.
A few people got off at the Division stop, but somehow the group of rowdy teenagers just subsumed that space, giving her no respite. When the train began moving again, she took a deep breath.
My neck feels relaxed. My breathing is soft, full, and easy.
The Damen station was aboveground—the Blue Line continued on an elevated track from that point—so any moment now she would notice the train ascending, she would see the gray haze of natural light and hear raindrops on the windows. And then she would know she was home free.
My entire body is relaxed and comfortable.
Ford peered down at her, his lips curved in a coy smile. “Are you around tonight? I thought maybe we could grab something to eat.”
She knew what she was supposed to say in response, the expected quip—You know what happens every time we do that—but her lips felt like they were moving slower and she’d just started to form the words when—
The train came to a sudden stop.
The guy in front of Victoria bumped into her, pushing her back into Ford. She swallowed, and waited for the train to start moving again.
It didn’t.
“Come on. What now?” the guy in front of her complained.
She tried to remain calm—they were probably just waiting for another train to clear the station. But then her mind began racing. What if this wasn’t a momentary delay? What if she were stuck here for a while, in this enclosed underground metal box that had no exits? She’d never make it; she’d already been hanging on by a thread, so the train needed to start moving—now—before she fainted or caused a scene, before everyone started staring at her, because everyone on the train was going to realize that something was wrong with her, and worst of all Ford would know that something was wrong with her, and—
“I have to get out of here.” She tried inhaling, but it wasn’t working; the air in the train car felt oppressively stuffy.
Ford looked down at her, and a flicker of understanding crossed his eyes. “The train,” he said quietly, as if something about this registered with him. He put his hand on her elbow reassuringly. “It’s okay. We’ll be moving any moment now.”
The train lurched forward, but it was too late; she felt light-headed and oddly disconnected from her body, as if this had become a dream, and Ford was saying something to her but all she heard was a rush of white noise as her vision narrowed and darkness closed in.
“I think I’m going to faint,” she murmured.
The last thing she felt before blacking out was his arms closing around her.
* * *
SHE HEARD THE sound of a man’s voice, commanding and authoritative.
Coming out.
It took her a moment to recognize the voice as Ford’s, to remember where she was, and to realize that she was moving.
He was carrying her off the train.
She felt the firmness of his chest against her cheek, the strength of his arms cradling her. When a rush of cooler air hit her, she breathed it in, slow and deep.
Ford shifted her in his arms, and she heard murmurs. Other voices.
“We’re off the train, Victoria.” His tone was reassuring. “I’m going to call 9-1-1 and get you some help.”
Please, no. She was already making enough of a scene. She gripped his shirt with one hand. “No. Just . . . don’t move.”
Forcing her eyes open, she saw that she and Ford were on the train platform, and that a small crowd of people had gathered around them.
All staring at her.
“I’m fine,” she said to the crowd. She went for a weak joke, to minimize the weirdness of the situation. “Guess I probably shouldn’t have skipped lunch today.”
“I think it would help if she could get a little space,” Ford told the spectators, not unkindly. Then he lowered his voice. “Victoria. Look at me.”
Really, she wasn’t sure she could face him right then. But, figuring she had to bite the bullet sometime, she finally tilted her head back and met his gaze.
His eyes were a warm blue, his expression a mixture of relief and reassurance. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”
She felt a sharp tug in her chest and opened her mouth to thank him for getting her off the train—but then she noticed something. “You’re soaked.”
The back of his hair and neck were all wet, the water having spread along his collar and shoulders, and even beginning to creep down the front of his shirt and the leather strap of his messenger bag. She saw then that they were only partially covered by the overhang above them, and realized that he was using his body to protect her as he held her in his arms.
Shielding her from the rain.
He peered down with a soft smile, his voice husky. “Well, you said not to move.”
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 . . . ”
“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.”