Married in Michigan by Jasinda Wilder

Author:Jasinda Wilder
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jasinda Wilder

13

I don’t know where my duffel bag is—so many people have carried it for me at this point that I’ve lost track of where it is.

Is Washington DC in the same time zone as Michigan?

Where will I sleep? Does he expect me to sleep with him?

Do I want to?

He’s a man, and one with a media-verified high-octane libido, so if he’s not expecting me to sleep with him he’s at least hoping to and probably looking for ways to make it happen.

The second question is trickier. Do I want to sleep with him?

Maybe.

No.

Yes.

I don’t know.

Welcome home?

Home.

Home?

I turn and step out of Paxton’s arm, heading for the terrace. But the door won’t open, and I get a little panicky trying to open it.

I stop, fighting for breath, and bite my lip. “I need to get some air,” I rasp.

Paxton steps beside me and unlatches something. “It was locked,” he says gently, sliding the door open. “Here.”

“Thank you,” I bite out.

The terrace is breathtaking. Flowers of all kind in full bloom, dwarf Japanese maples, carefully trimmed spruce shrubs, a profusion of greenery and flowers and trees I don’t know the names for, all artfully interwoven with stone flags and trickling streams and gurgling mini-waterfalls, hidden lights…it’s gloriously peaceful and calming, and I find a hand-carved wooden bench tucked into an alcove beneath the outspread arms of a cherry tree. Slumping down into it, I breathe in carefully; holding my breath, I straighten my spine, rest my hands on my knees, palms up, close my eyes, and slowly release my breath in a precisely measured four-count; I exhale to the same measured four-count, rest with my lungs empty for another four-count, and inhale once more. After a few repetitions, my pulse has slowed and my breathing is more normal. I can’t say the anxiety and turmoil in my brain have slowed, but it’s not dominating my physiological mechanisms anymore.

“Do you have anxiety attacks a lot?” I hear him ask, and feel him beside me.

I glance at him—he’s resting a buttock and thigh on the edge of the sculpted brick wall, which runs in a gentle, sinuous curve around behind the bench. I scoot over on the bench to make room for him, and he offers me a smile as he takes the spot.

I shrug. “Sometimes.”

“Frequently enough to have a breathing response,” he says.

“I don’t know if it’s an actual medical anxiety attack or panic attack, I just know sometimes stress and worry get the better of me, and it’s hard to breathe and my heart goes a little haywire.” I don’t look at him. “I don’t get them, like, every day or anything, but when I do get them, they hit hard and fast.”

“Where’d you learn the breathing technique?”

“My supervisor at the hotel, Tanya.” I sort through what to say. “I was going through some personal stuff and had an attack or whatever you want to call it while I was at work. Tanya has had them for ages, and actually saw a therapist about them—Tanya’s therapist taught her, and she taught me, and I’ve used it since.

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