Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Just as I’m about to put my Kindle away, the plane gives a harsh jolt, and my device falls to the floor.
I’m about to reach for it when the turbulence becomes more violent, and my heart pounds furiously in my chest.
It’s fine. I’m fine. This is normal.
Turbulence is normal.
I inhale deeply. Fuck. I hate this.
Deep down, I know flying is safe. Statistically safer than driving. But when the plane bumps and shakes, all my rational thoughts leave the building, and I can’t stop the intrusive ones that wage war inside me.
What if something is wrong?
What if the pilots aren’t telling us?
What if this is it? What if I die sitting next to Hudson? No. Stop. This is ridiculous.
You aren’t dying.
My pulse accelerates. Blood pounds through my veins at a rate that probably could cause a heart attack.
I’m lost in my thoughts of what-if when Hudson shifts.
Hudson.
Goddammit.
Why does it always have to be him? He is the one person in the world I don’t want to see me unraveling. Yet this man is always around when I’m having a panic attack.
I need to rein it in, but even as I think these words, I know it’s impossible. When I go down the path, it’s hard to push away my thoughts.
Then I feel it. His fingers brush against mine on the armrest.
Despite my efforts to be unaffected, my skin tingles at the contact. Traitor.
I freeze, glancing down at where our hands now touch.
His hand now fully covers mine.
I tilt my head up until my gaze meets his.
Locked in a stare, neither of us speaks.
The plane continues to shake uncontrollably.
His hand tightens around me. His fingers softly caress my skin.
“We’re okay,” he finally says. “Just breathe.”
His voice is calm and steady—a lifeline in the chaos.
I try to inhale, my head dropping to look at the floor. I’m trying desperately to calm down, but as the plane drops, I’m not sure I can.
His fingers continue to circle, but this time, his free hand reaches out and touches my chin. “Don’t look away from me.”
I obey.
When I meet his stare, I feel anchored to the world. It makes no sense, but his blue eyes seem to hold me hostage, and as he looks at me, I regulate my breathing.
“I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
And like in the closet and the gas station . . . for some reason, I believe him.
21
Molly
The faint hum of skates on the ice fills the rink as I stand on the sidelines, pretending to scroll through my phone.
Really, I’m watching Hudson.
Not because I want to, of course. It’s purely circumstantial. He’s been on fire today, weaving through drills like the puck is his bitch.
We’re back home after a two-game loss, and the guys are practicing for the next game tomorrow. They need to win this next one.
Even Dane gave him a fist bump after some crazy play I have never seen before, which is saying something.
It’s annoying, really. No one should be that good at hockey, and that’s infuriating.
I sigh and tuck my phone into my pocket, shifting my focus to the clipboard in my hand.
Dane asked me to update some sponsor scheduling for the week, which is why I’m here in the first place.
Definitely not because I want to see Hudson Wilde in action.
“Hex.”
Speak of the devil.
I glance up to find Hudson skating toward me, his helmet pushed back enough to reveal that stupidly perfect smirk of his. He pulls to a stop at the boards, resting his gloved hands on the top rail.
“What do you want, Wilde?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. Contrary to my words, my tone is light. I can’t help but be thankful for his help yesterday.
Instead of answering, he removes his glove and reaches into his skate—pulling out a small white card. He slips it through the gap in the boards, holding it out to me.
“What’s this?” I ask, reluctantly taking the card.
“Just read it,” he says surprisingly serious.
I glance down at the card, half expecting some sort of dumb prank or an invitation to another tequila-fueled disaster. Instead, my heart stumbles as I take in the text.
Dr. Karen Aldridge
Licensed Therapist
Specializing in Anxiety, PTSD, and Trauma Therapy
I stare at the card, my chest tightening.
“Is this a joke?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.
“Nope,” Hudson says casually, leaning a little closer. “She’s good. Helped a couple of my teammates when they were going through stuff.”
I glance up at him, still holding the card between my fingers like it might burn me. “And you thought you’d just . . . slip this to me?”
His expression softens, and I see something in his eyes that makes my throat tighten even more. Concern.
“You don’t have to call her,” he says, his voice low enough that no one else can hear. “I just thought . . .” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “You might want someone to talk to.”