Page 18 of here

His eyes scan my face, taking in what I’m sure is a disaster of running mascara, smeared lipstick, and the mints I’m practically crushing between my teeth, hoping to mask what is crystal clear. I grab my keys from the floor and put them with the tin back into my clutch.

“Happy now?” I try to push past him.

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“What do you want?” My voice cracks. “A first-row seat to the Naomi shit show?”

“Stop.” He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “Just stop.”

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh, unforgiving, and highlighting my awful features in the mirror behind him. Pale, haunted, caught.

My words come out in a whisper. “I need to fix my makeup.”

He steps aside, but his eyes never leave me. “You okay?”

“Yes.” I turn on the faucet, concentrating on letting the water run over my fingers.

“I thought we agreed you’d eat something.”

I meet his eyes in the mirror. “I did.”

He’s right behind me. “And then you threw it back up.”

I scrub my hands harder. “It was disgusting.”

“Then eat something else.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Stop lying.” He braces his hands on the counter, his arms bracketing my hips. “Tell me why the thought of cinnamon sends you running for the toilet.”

“Back off.”

His lips ghost across the sensitive skin of my shoulders, leaving goosebumps. “Not until you talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You think I don’t see it? The way you count every bite? How you disappear after meals?”

“Oh, now you notice things?” I turn off the water and grab a towel, drying my hands. “When you’re not drowning in whiskey or wallowing in daddy issues?”

“You can say whatever you want.” Brandon’s hands land on my hips, grip firm enough to anchor me in place. “I won’t leave your side.”

His lips find the crook of my neck, and my body betrays me, head tilting back on instinct. My reflection blurs in the mirror, and I grip the towel harder, trying to ground myself.

“I can feel your pulse racing.” His breath tickles my ear. “You can’t hide from me.”

My eyes flutter shut. “Brandon…”

“What are you so afraid of?”

I wrench away from him, stumbling backward until my shoulder blades hit the bathroom wall. The tile is cold through my dress, and I press harder against it, needing the shock of discomfort to clear my head. “Stop touching me.”

He finally backs off, hands raised, but the concern in his eyes makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both.

“Okay.” His voice is soft, careful. Like I’m some wild animal about to bolt. “I’m not touching you. But I’m not leaving either.”

“You want to play therapist? Fix your own shit first.”

---