Page 4 of Compulsion

“I have another one at work that I was going to wear after the gym.” He cuts me off, still speaking to me in that slow, reassuring cadence. “If you want to make it up to me, you can agree to go to dinner with me.”

It’s not a question, and he’s so cajoling that I almost sayyesbefore I can think better of it.

But my chest is too tight to say anything, iron bands clamping around my lungs. The residual shock of his touch hits me like a north wind wave, and memories of the assault slam into me.

A gloved hand shackles my wrists, pinning me to the wall. The peeling paint in my aging apartment flakes beneath my cheek, and a hard, broad body cages me in from behind. Hisother hand is clamped over my nose and mouth. I can’t scream. I can’t breathe…

“Abby?” The frosty disapproval in Stacy’s voice melts into honeyed concern. “You don’t look so good. If you’re sick, you need to go home.”

“Come on,” Dane says when I don’t answer right away. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

His sure fingers touch my elbow, and I simply allow him to steer me away from the mess I made with the flat white.

Just like last night, I don’t try to resist; my body softens and submits.

I let it happen.

Something must be broken in my brain, because I lack the fight-or-flight instinct—when threatened, my body does neither.

Not that Dane is a threat. The stunning man who frequents the café every morning is a suave gentleman. Even though he’s still touching me, the contact isn’t remotely violent. And it’s not entirely unwanted.

I shouldn’t be enjoying a man’s nearness when I’m clinging to sanity by my fingernails, but I can’t help edging toward his powerful body as we step outside into the Carolina heat. A soft ocean breeze barely cuts through the thick, humid air, and sweat instantly beads on my chilled brow. I can’t seem to regulate my body temperature.

Maybe I am going to be sick, after all.

The prospect of vomiting in front of him is far too mortifying. I can’t bear the thought of coming completely unraveled around the man I’ve secretly lusted after for months.

I close my eyes for a moment and draw in a deep breath through my nose. I inhale the scent of Dane’s expensive cologne again: spicy, salt-kissed cedarwood. He’s close enough that it blots out the slightly briny smell of the harbor and the musky scent of the carriage horse clopping by on the cobbled street.

His fingers finally drop from my elbow, only to skim up my arm so that his hand rests on my shoulder.

I’ve often admired his hands when he grasps the coffee cups that I offer him every morning. More than once, those long, deft fingers and the thoroughly masculine, broad palms have shown up in my paintings. The secret paintings that I’ve never shown to anyone.

His hand is heavier than I imagined it might be, and his fingertips press into my shoulder ever so slightly, as though his firm but careful grip will somehow hold me together when I’m on the verge of shattering. My composure is already in tatters, my cheery mask cracked to reveal the anguish inside.

“Breathe, Abigail,” he intones. “Just breathe.”

I obey and inhale more of his intoxicating scent.

“Why do you call me that?” I ask on the exhale before I can think better of it.

His dark brows knit together. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

I gesture at my name badge that’s pinned to my black apron. “Everyone calls me Abby.”

He flashes me a dazzling smile that knocks the precious oxygen from my lungs. “I suppose I’m still a bit more formal than the locals. Bad habit from back home.”

I don’t bother to tell him that my local family raised me to be highly formal as well.

I never talk about them. If I can avoid it, I try not to even think about them.

“You’re from England, right?” I ask instead, happy for the distraction from the churning in my gut.

He nods. “From York originally. The old York.”

“Oh,” I say, somewhat inanely. “What brought you to South Carolina?”

His smile turns a touch rueful. “You don’t have to make small talk with me, Abigail. How are you feeling?”

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