Where One Goes(25)

He rolls his eyes. George looks a little more groomed this evening; his hair is combed back and he’s wearing jeans and a black dress shirt. He actually looks . . . hot. “It’s Sunday,” he says, sarcastically.

“And?” I ask pointedly.

“You were invited to dinner at my parents.’ But if you’re busy, I’ll just let them know you can’t make it.” I can tell by the lilt in his voice that it’s exactly what he hopes I’ll do.

“Fuck. I forgot.”

“You’re going,” Ike states.

“Clearly,” George mumbles. “As much as I’m sure my parents and little brother would love to see your ass hanging out of that T-shirt, maybe you should put something a little more modest on.”

Did he just say ‘little brother’? I decide to ask Ike about it later. “Give me ten minutes. Come in.” I open the door wider and stand to the side so he can enter. Slipping by me, he enters, his eyes scanning my room. Of course my bra is hanging over the pleather chair he heads straight for. Picking it up, he hands it to me.

“I think you might need this.”

Snatching it out of his hand, I say, “Thanks.”

After I lock myself in the bathroom, I hear him say, “Lord, give me strength.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m ready to go and George leads me out to the parking lot. I lock my door and turn to find him straddling a motorcycle, causing my heart to drop to my feet.

“I brought a helmet for you, don’t worry,” he says, as he holds out a small, black helmet for me.

My eyes are wide as I stare at him. The sounds of screeching tires and bright lights flicker through my mind, making my throat constrict.

“What is it?” George asks, his mouth curving slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little bike ride?”

Shaking my head, I step back, my hand searching blindly for the doorknob to my room. Nausea overtakes my stomach as I fumble to open the door, accomplishing it just in time before I make it to the bathroom to vomit. My breathing is labored as I begin to dry heave, and I know I need to calm down or I’ll hyperventilate.

“Shit, Charlotte. You’re having a panic attack. What is it?” Ike asks as he stands beside me, but I can’t answer him. My arms are clutching the toilet as my body continues to rack itself painfully, trying to purge the contents of my stomach.

After a minute, I feel my hair being slid to the side, followed by something cold and wet on my neck. “Calm down, Charlotte,” George says, quietly, as he kneels beside me. “Everything is okay. You have to slow your breathing. Look at me,” he orders, and as I continue to suck in air, I raise my gaze to his. I expect to see fear or pity, but I see neither. George stares pointedly at me, trying to find me where I’m lost inside my head. “Inhale with me, nice and slow.” Together we breathe in and exhale slowly, and after a few minutes, George has calmed me down almost completely.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“No. I’d rather not.” I sniffle, feeling like a total lunatic for freaking out that way. He must think I’m insane. “God. I’m so sorry,” I manage as I wipe frantically at my face, positive it’s covered in mascara.

“So am I. I didn’t mean to make fun of you. I should’ve brought my truck.” He pushes himself up then offers me a hand, helping me to my feet.

“Thank you for that,” I whisper.

“I know a thing or two about panic attacks,” he says, softly. “Had a few of them when . . .” He pauses, a pained expression seizing his features. “A while ago,” he finishes. I know he means when Ike died, but as far as he knows, I don’t know much—or maybe, anything at all—about that part of his life. And I’m sure discussing it is painful for him, so I don’t press. “I’ll let you get cleaned up. Would you mind driving your truck to my parents’?”

A huge part of me doesn’t want to go after the meltdown I just had, but I know Ike wants me there. “Okay, thanks.” I nod and George slips out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I set about cleaning my face and reapplying a light coat of makeup.

“Are you okay?” Ike asks from behind me. In the reflection of the mirror, I can see his brows furrowed in concern. I know George is just outside, in my room, so I nod yes in answer even though the truth is—I’m not.



We make it to the McDermotts’ place by four. Thankfully, we drove my truck and I haven’t suffered any more panic attacks. As we stand in front of the gigantic house, my eyes widen—I’m in awe. The McDermotts own a bed and breakfast. The enormous house has a plantation porch with large, round pillars. It’s beautiful, especially with the mountains as a backdrop.

“This is where you grew up?” I ask, somewhat raging jealous.

“Trust me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. We had to share our home with strangers for a large portion of each year.”

“Still,” I add. “This is just . . . beautiful.”


“I guess,” he agrees. “My mother is very excited about you joining us for dinner,” George says, as he rests a hand to my back to lead me up the stairs. My body stiffens at the contact. I’m still not used to that feeling; the feeling of a man touching me, leading me, using his body to guide me. I think it’s one of those little things people take for granted. “I think she has some twisted idea in her mind that we might date,” he snorts as if the thought was ridiculous. I scowl where he can’t see. Am I that unattractive to him? I can’t help remarking on his comment.