Page 57 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“I love these things,” she says, peering down as she presses herself to the glass like a demented starfish.
I stay near the door. “Y-Yeah, they’re cool.”
She lets go of the railing and faces me. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“That’s because I’m not.”
As she assesses me through the slits of her eyes that are full of suspicion, the turning cogs in her head must click into place as she blurts, “You were serious when we went to Guest Services… about being claustrophobic?”
“I was. Clearly, you weren’t.”
“Of course not. I just didn’t want to be moved to a cabin on deck three.” She dismisses her fib as if it’s irrelevant. “Is your claustrophobia bad?”
“It can be.”
“Why do you keep getting into elevators then?”
“Because my sister told me to.”
Riles steps forward and clasps my forearms, her grip firm but kind.
“What are you doing?” I squeak like I’m going through puberty as she coaxes me forward, my balls bouncing up deep into the pit of my stomach.
“Come closer to the glass.”
Until now, I’ve managed to keep my cool while traveling in the death boxes, rooting myself near the door, focusing on the numbers lighting up, and acting as if I were any other passenger. My dignity has remained intact, my phobia private.
“Nah,” I choke out, trying but failing to remain impassive. “I’m good near the door.”
“You won’t feel so enclosed if you look out into the atrium.” She gently tugs my arms, her smoky-gray eyes encouraging and without judgment.
I go to back away, but I’m fucking cornered.
“Trust me,” she says. “I promise.”
Unable to escape, I let her lead me to the glass while stupidly sucking in a breath and inhaling her please-lick-me perfume. My head swims, my knees unlock, and I nearly fucking collapse.
“Is this helping?” she asks.
Hell no!
“S-Sure,” I stutter, willing the damn elevator to stop so I can get the hell out.
“See?” She gestures to the atrium, her chest rising as she inhales. “There’s no walls closing in on you. Breathe, Riley. Embrace the vast space.”
I do as I’m told, breathing in and out, my balls the size of acorns.
“Phobias are awful. Trust me, I know. I’m equinophobic.”
Diverting my gaze from her breasts, which are providing a better distraction than the vast space I’m supposed to be embracing, I choke out, “What’s that?”
“Fear of—” She pauses and smiles the kind of cheeky smile Poppy is exceptionally good at. “—horses.”
Laughter leaves my throat in a whoosh, and for the slightest moment, I forget where I am.
“Kidding. I love horses. Just not the ones named Ben.” She winks at me when the doors open, then pats my back as if I’m a kindergartner who refrained from pissing his pants. “You did good.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, attempting to stride confidently out of the glass prison.
