Stars Over Alaska (Wild River #4) - Jennifer Snow Page 0,132
and places. Now, it’s different. Maybe it was because I wasn’t driving? Back then, I would read or do Mad Libs or sing to whatever my grandmother had on the radio.” She shrugged. Breathe. Relax. It wasn’t thunder. All was well and she could stop freaking out. Her hold eased on her bag.
“You take cream or sugar in your coffee?” He crossed to the small table against the wall next to the plastic plant. A single-serving coffee maker sat waiting, a rack of brightly colored coffee pods beside it, and two plastic cups full of individual sweetener packets and creamers.
“I can manage.” She followed, determined to show him just how normal she could be. Coffee was normal. Doing something would help. And occupy her hands. If she were lucky, he wouldn’t notice how badly she was shaking. “Thank you.” But a quick glance his way told her he did notice. And that he was watching her. Closely.
That was part of it, wasn’t it? Making sure she was fit, period. And not just to take care of a dog. It was to show her boss that she was able to resume her responsibilities at the college and in the classroom. How had her boss, Dr. Rivera, dean of fine arts, put it? It was vital that she take this time for her total recovery and health before the start of the semester. Meaning, she had to stop acting neurotic and get a handle on her nerves or her job was in jeopardy.
Her job. Something she’d worked hard to earn. Something she was good at.
Vega women weren’t weak. Her great-grandmother, legend had it, outlived hurricanes, mudslides and three husbands before she passed at 101. Lizzie’s grandmother raised five boys on her own and worked three jobs to support her family, and still had time to embroider all the church choir and ceremonial robes. Lizzie’s mother had been no different. Her father’s heart attack had forced her mother into the workplace, working nights, holidays and weekends, yet she had never missed a single one of Lizzie’s school functions.
But, no, not Lizzie. One tiny, little, scary thing happens and she falls apart.
She slammed the empty creamer cup onto the small table, knocking the cup of sugar packets onto the floor and bringing her instantly back to the present.
The present, where Hayden Mitchell stood, arms crossed, watching her.
Perfect. Just perfect. “I’m fine.” She knelt, scooping the packets back into the cup and setting it, carefully, back in its place. “Just fine.” Don’t look at him. Don’t do it. She looked.
He nodded. Once. Studying her. No expression. Nothing.
She had no right to feel defensive but she couldn’t help it. There was no doubt what he was doing. He was making judgments. Noting unusual behaviors. I have plenty of those. Still, getting defensive wasn’t going to help. “It was a long drive.”
Another nod.
The bubbling hiss of the coffeepot filled the strained silence between them. And ratcheted up her mounting agitation.
It was easier to stare at the coffee, slowly filling up the white ceramic cup. The dark fluid kept going, rising higher and higher—not stopping. The higher the coffee got, the harder it was to breathe. She hadn’t found a focal point, she was too rattled. In that instant she was back there, in the dark, water rushing in on her as she tried to find a foothold in the muck with the sludge sucking her shoes from her feet.
“Dr. Vega?” A voice penetrated the fog in her brain.
The coffee kept going, nearing the top of the cup. Darker and thicker and inescapable.
“Elizabeth?” Stronger then.
Still, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. The coffee slowly stopped, the last few drops shaking the smooth surface and causing ripples.
Why couldn’t she move?
Something wet pushed against her hand, causing her to jerk away—and snapping her back to reality. Charley, tail wagging and tongue lolling, stood at her side.
“Good boy.” Hayden Mitchell’s voice was soft and low.
Words clogged her throat. Should she apologize? Explain? And what explanation could she possibly have for being terrified of a cup of coffee? Or why she was shaking so badly she could barely stay upright.
“You should sit.” There was no judgment, just concern.
“I’m fine.” Her words were automatic. Defensive. And an obvious lie.
His sigh grabbed her attention. “Ma’am, I respectfully disagree. Please, sit down—before you fall down.”
She almost argued. Almost. But she was shaking so much that her only option was to take the very solid, very warm arm he offered and hope he didn’t immediately pack her back into her car and send her home, dogless, for such odd behavior. But she couldn’t leave. She couldn’t. Try, Lizzie. She drew in a deep breath. I can do this.
But if her viselike grip on his arm hadn’t drawn suspicion, the fact that she’d pressed her face against the hard ball of his shoulder surely would. Here she was, groping a complete stranger, all but guaranteeing she wouldn’t be leaving with a dog—or her dignity—intact.
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