Stars Over Alaska (Wild River #4) - Jennifer Snow Page 0,131

passed along too many times already—it was up to him to make sure this time, it was forever.

With what he hoped was a welcoming smile, he nodded toward the door. “This way.”

* * *

Every nerve was firing distress. The sensation was so consuming it was hard to get her bearings. All this. The drive. The city. Locating the K-9 Placement Center just south of the air force base on the outskirts of San Antonio, Texas. Unfamiliar. Lovely land, ruggedly so. But no matter how lovely the view, from the rolling hills to the gorgeous man and his perky-eared dog, she couldn’t shake the unease weighing down her chest. Damn storm. She’d been fine, excited even, until she’d hit the halfway mark of her trip and a thunderstorm turned the sky black and turned her insides into a jumpy, unsettled mess.

She followed Hayden Mitchell’s broad back, breathing deep and concentrating on relaxing and reminding herself why she was here. To get my life back.

One teensy little thunderstorm wasn’t going to undo the time she’d spent with her therapist. Her progress was remarkable, according to Dr. Margot Peeler, her therapist. Three months ago, she’d have been panicking over everything. From the new surroundings, unfamiliar floor plans, and not knowing where all the doors and windows and exits were to avoid getting trapped... Since she’d started seeing Dr. Peeler, she’d learned how to find a focal point, practice mindfulness and take deep breaths to cut off her spatial-related-attacks before they reached epic proportions.

Now if only I could apply the same techniques to thunderstorms... Dr. Peeler told her to be patient. There was no way to rush this—if it was to be truly successful. She shook her head.

Lizzie, stop! She could hear her grandmother’s voice, loud and clear in her head. You can do this. You are too strong, too fierce a woman to be ruled by fear.

That’s why she was here. A promise to Grammy.

She stood taller, straighter, thinking of her beloved grandmother. Diminutive in size, but mighty in spirit. Like Lizzie. Like she had been. Like she wanted, desperately, to be again.

It wasn’t easy, but she was getting there. Today was proof of that.

“The traffic was horrible,” she started. Talking was a good way to chase off her nerves. “All the construction. Lane’s closing here, detours there. And so many rude people, honking and cutting in. And then a terrible storm.” She swallowed hard. Why mention the storm? That wasn’t going to help. She sighed, trying again. “I saw two accidents. Two. And you know what? People were slowing down to see the accident. Really slowing down, to get an eyeful. Of what? What is that?” She sucked in a deep breath. “What is wrong with people?”

Hayden Mitchell held the door open for her, one eyebrow cocked up, a small smile on his face. “I often ask myself the same thing, ma’am.”

Snap out of it, Lizzie. Focus on this. Him. The ma’am. His strong, rough hands. Big. Capable. Oddly reassuring.

Focusing on him was a way better option than thinking about the storm. He was handsome, especially now that he was smiling.

That smile helped her cross the threshold. Until she heard a rumble, far off in the distance. She came to a sudden stop—so sudden Hayden Mitchell plowed right into her.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, stepping around her.

She should say something like, “No need to apologize” or “It was my fault.” Because it was. But the words stuck and clogged her throat while she waited, listening closely. Maybe it had been a passing motorcycle? A jet? Anything that wasn’t thunder? She swallowed, clutching her bag to her chest as she gave the small office a once-over.

If Mr. Mitchell was thrown by her beyond bizarre behavior, he didn’t let on. “You drove up from Houston this morning?”

“Yes.” She searched the open room for something solid to focus on. Hayden Mitchell was easy on the eyes but continuing to stare at him, and his very nice smile, wasn’t exactly normal behavior. So, another focal point was needed. The room wasn’t big. A desk on either side. Military K-9 posters on the wall. A clock hung on the middle of the back wall, ticking away the hour, and a door beneath it. Another way out, maybe. A large plastic potted plant in one corner of the room. Sterile. Unremarkable. “Not too long a trip, without the traffic.” She cleared her throat and tried again. “I remember when I was little, taking long car trips. I loved them—the people