That was a problem she'd worry about in the morning. “What happened with Liv tonight?”
He combed his fingers through her hair and stared at the ceiling. “You were right. She's too scared to trust me. Can't blame her.” He lowered his eyes to hers. “They want to meet you. Joshua specifically. The meeting is set a month from today.” The fingers in her hair curled, pulling the strands and speeding her pulse. “In a restaurant.”
The spectacle played out in her head. A slobbering panic attack, nothing like the little gasping hiccups she'd been having outside the cabin. More like one of those spit-flinging episodes that bucked her body all over the floor and rolled her eyes into the back of her head. Patrons would gape in horror and spill their drinks. The manager would call for an ambulance. And Van would be humiliated.
A silver light focused on her, funneling her feral thoughts back to the loft, the bed, and the hard body cradling her. His eyes glowed with acceptance, hope, faith. He looked at her with the kind of love that would transcend any answer she gave.
With a trembling smile, she nodded. “I'll try.”
Amber did try. Hour by hour, day after day, Van watched her tackle her fear till her body gave out. He supported her the best way he knew how, with a commanding presence, a steady hand, and an aching yet prideful heart. But he eased up on pushing and dragging her in his usual way, because dammit, she was hard enough on herself.
Even now, five days away from the meeting with Liv and Joshua, she lay passed-out in the front seat of the Mustang, covered in sweat and dark hair tangled around her. Because she'd demanded he drive her to the edge of the two-hundred acre property.
He paced beside the open passenger door, the gravel driveway crunching beneath his sneakers. Even through muscle spasms and hyperventilation, she'd fought with white knuckles on the dashboard to remain conscious.
The tightening in his gut told him she wouldn’t make it inside that restaurant. If she didn’t, he would never hold it against her. But how well would she accept her failure?
He searched his pockets for a toothpick and came up empty. Fucking hell.
He lowered onto the edge of the seat beside her and stroked the soft, damp skin on her cheek, traced the lashes beneath her closed eyes, and pressed his thumb against her full bottom lip. He yearned to take her back to the house before she woke, but he'd agreed to her plea.
If I pass out, please don't drive me back till I wake. I need to fight through this.
The phobia was so deeply worked into her mind it felt more powerful than the two of them combined. But she had made progress. She'd conquered the uncovered windows within one week. Hell, she didn't even mess with her hair anymore when she passed by them.
The bulimia seemed to be subdued because she didn’t obsess over her body image anymore. She never tried to cover her body from him, her appetite had grown to a healthy level, and a few times, he’d caught her looking at her reflection, not with disgust, but with approval flickering in her eyes.
The OCD had become a trivial thing. She still counted and popped her knuckles when she was upset, and she would always be an orderly little neat freak. But it didn't control her life. Not like the agoraphobia. Not like him.
Her eyes fluttered open, flicking over the surrounding windows, groggily orienting. Her fingers curled in her lap, and her breathing hitched.
He cupped her face to direct her focus on him. When their eyes locked, he was transported back to the first time they met. On her porch, him with his dick in his hand, her all dolled up for a date with the mailbox. Her brown eyes, round as saucers then, had been so terrified.
The very same terror stared back at him now. He tensed, and the surrounding timber stilled, too, waiting for her reaction.
Her breathing tightened, followed by the usual shaking, wheezing, and sweating. Her choking sobs wrenched at the air and weighted his stomach with lead. He crawled into the driver's seat, closed the doors, and sped back to the house, his heart stumbling all over itself. This wasn't working. Nothing was working.
After he fed her lunch, she sat at the kitchen table, staring at the remnants of oyster bisque in the bowl. Her shoulders slumped, her head lowered, and she wouldn't maintain eye contact.
He wore a path on the tiles around her chair, his muscles stiff and his throat tight. Joshua had given him a chance to win Liv’s trust. Would this meeting be his only chance? It seemed like an all or nothing kind of opportunity, to prove to Liv he had a girl who wasn’t coerced or enslaved.