If You Need Me (The Toronto Terror Series)

Sitting in a vehicle, immersed in the scent of all things Dallas is torture. He smells way too good. I can’t escape him, or his chiseled fucking jaw and his incredible forearms. There’s this muscle at his elbow that resembles a half golf ball, and I can’t stop staring at it.

My stomach knots as we pass the sign that reads Welcome to Huntsville, population 19,000. I grip the door handle and suck in a breath. And then another, but I still feel like I can’t get enough air.

“Honey, are you okay?” It sounds like Dallas is in a tunnel.

I try to tell him I’m fine, but all that comes out is a horrible squeaky sound.

He takes the next exit and pulls onto the shoulder, shifting the car into park.

My vision blurs, and everything narrows to a pinpoint. This is so embarrassing. I think I’m about to lose it. That never happens. Not like this. I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t afford an emotional breakdown. Especially not in front of Dallas.

“Hey, hey. Is it okay if I touch you?”

I want to say no, but instead I nod.

Why the hell did I nod?

He unfastens his seat belt and unlocks the door. The strains of The Tragically Hip’s “Bobcaygeon” fill the car. A few seconds later, the passenger door opens. Dallas leans into my personal space, releases my seat belt, and slides his hands behind my knees. It must be a sensitive part of my body, because that contact causes a jolt to buzz down my spine and settle in familiar places.

He adjusts my position so I’m sitting sideways, feet on the gravel. Dallas crouches in front of me so we’re eye to eye. One hand stays on my knee, and the other moves my hair away from my face and curves around the side of my neck. It’s intimate and gentle and so conflicting. I don’t want to need grounding right now, especially not from him.

“Take a deep breath, honey.” His thumb sweeps back and forth along the edge of my jaw.

“I don’t know what’s going on.” I gulp air, but it doesn’t fill my lungs.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He pulls me close, and I wrap my arms around him, holding on for dear life. Like he’s a buoy. Like he can save me from whatever this is. “I—I can’t breathe.”

He lets me cling to him for a few seconds before he unwraps my arms and hands me his Terror water bottle with the absurd goose logo. “Drink this.”

I grip it with both hands, but even then, it wobbles perilously. He helps me steady it while I take a sip. The ice-cold water is startling but refreshing.

“Good girl. A little more,” he cajoles.

I refuse to acknowledge how that simple praise makes me feel instantly better, but I do as he says.

“That’s it. You’re doing great. You got this, Wills.” His smile is as soft as his voice. He tips the water bottle again.

The cold liquid slides down my throat. My tunnel vision clears as the sensation that someone is gripping my throat eases.

He sets the water bottle back in the center console and wraps his wide, warm palms around my calves, squeezing gently. “Do you feel a little better?”

“I don’t even know what that was.” Embarrassment washes over me. “I felt like I was choking, and I couldn’t take a breath, and my whole body went…numb? Did I just have some kind of medical episode? Do I need to go to the hospital?”

His expression shifts to empathy. “You had a panic attack.”

I blink at him. “That’s impossible. I don’t panic.”

“Normally, I would agree. However, I have some experience with panic, and everything you’ve just described fits into that category.”

I frown.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ve created a lot more stress for you around this reunion. I’m sure it feels like we’re walking into the jaws of a lion. But I’ve got you, okay? I got you into this shit, and I won’t let you go through it alone. Not ever again.”

He’s talking about a lot more than the reunion, but I’m afraid to put that much faith in him—especially since he’s right; he is the reason we’re in this mess. But if I take a step back and set aside our tumultuous history, he’s been all-in since the moment we started fake dating.

“I can’t have that happen again, Dallas.” I’m not just talking about the panic attack. I’m talking about all of it, including what he did to me all those years ago.

He strokes my cheek and takes my hand, eyes brimming with emotion. “I won’t let it. I promise, Wilhelmina.”

I wish I could believe him. I pull my hand free and tuck myself back into the passenger seat. “I’m fine now. Thank you for whatever you did to make that stop.”

He doesn’t move yet. “If you need another minute, we can stop somewhere. Grab an iced latte.”

I can’t afford to be weak. Not with the shitstorm of a weekend ahead of us. Starting with Brooklyn and Sean’s engagement party. “It’s better if we don’t. We’ll run into someone.” And I’m not ready for that, clearly. I tap his knee, which is resting against my calf. “Seriously. I’m fine. Your magic worked. I’m good to go.” I give him the thumbs-up.

He reluctantly stands and closes the passenger door.

I exhale a relieved breath. Having him that close, touching me, makes it hard to think clearly. The orgasm deal was a bad idea. I inspect my shaking hands as he rounds the hood. For a moment, I’m transported back to prom all those years ago. The way my body feels now is an echo of that night in the parking lot. It’s the only time in my life I’ve lost it like that. It took forever to get myself under control again. But no one was there to witness it. And there was no one to calm me down, either. I cried so hard I made myself sick.

Dallas settles back in the driver’s seat. “Wilhelmina?”

I can feel his eyes on me as I force a smile. “Really, I’m good. Let’s get going. We only have a couple hours before their engagement party.”

“If you’re sure.” Dallas checks to make sure it’s clear before he pulls back onto the road.

I can fake it for a weekend. I will not break down again, not in front of Dallas and certainly not in front of our peers. I left this town for a reason. I’m a badass PR director who puts hockey players in their place on a regular basis. I can handle a bunch of former classmates.

It only takes a few minutes to get to Dallas’s parents’ house once we’re off the main drag. Technically, there’s enough space for Dallas and me to stay at my moms’ place, but they downsized to a cozy two-bedroom a few years ago. Dallas’s parents still live in the house he grew up in. It’s a spacious two-story, five-bedroom home. I’ve only ever been inside it once, for a house party junior year that Brooklyn forced me to go to. It wasn’t really my scene. Also, she disappeared into one of the bedrooms with some grade-twelve boy half an hour after we arrived, leaving me to fend for myself.

The front door flies open as we pull into the driveway. Dallas’s mom steps out onto the wraparound porch. Her hair is pulled back, and she’s dressed in a pair of pink capris and a short-sleeved white top, which is covered by an apron that reads HOME IS WHERE THE CAKE IS. She is the quintessential Betty Crocker of moms.

Her smile lights up her face as Dallas parks behind his dad’s truck. I’m once again submerged in guilt, knowing we’ll eventually break her heart. And coming back to Huntsville once this fake engagement ends will be another challenge. I push those thoughts aside. We’ve made our bed; we have to lie in it. It’s too late to go back now.

Diana rushes down the front steps, and Dallas wraps her in a hug, lifting her off her feet. My stupid heart gets all fluttery. The way a man treats his mother says a lot about him. Dallas adores his mom as much as she adores him. He always talks about her with respect and kindness.

I step out of Dallas’s sports car as he sets his mom down. She rushes around the hood and folds me into her embrace. “I’m so happy you’re here! How was the drive up?”

“Smooth like butter,” I lie. “Thank you so much for opening your home to me.”

“We wouldn’t have it any other way.” She squeezes my hands and looks over at Dallas. “Sweetie, why don’t you grab the bags, and we’ll get you settled in.”

“You got it, Mom.” Dallas rounds the trunk.

“Oh, I can carry my own bag.” I packed like I was going away for weeks, not three days.

Diana chuckles. “I know you can, but it’s okay to let people do things for you.” I expect her to guide me toward the front door, but instead we round the side of the house. “We thought you and Dallas would appreciate a little privacy this weekend, so we set you up in the bunky.”

“Oh, we would’ve been fine in the house.” I look over my shoulder at Dallas who’s wheeling my enormous suitcase and weekend bag, along with his own small duffel and our garment bags.

I widen my eyes at him, and he just smiles and shrugs.

“I’m so happy that you’re finally together.” Diana pats my hand. “He was always so protective of you when you were kids.”

I frown. She must be thinking of someone else. The last thing Dallas ever did when we were kids was shield me from hurt. I don’t correct her, though. Clearly her understanding of my relationship with Dallas is different than the truth.

The bunky is an adorable little cabin. The covered front porch faces the lake and has a wooden two-person swing decorated with cushions. The front door is painted butter yellow with a sign that says HOME SWEET HOME. Diana opens the door and ushers me inside. “It’s cozy, but it’s private.”

“It’s perfect,” I say as I enter the small, one-room cabin. I’m impressed that my voice doesn’t crack. There are two doors on the far wall, presumably leading to a closet and a bathroom. To my right is a kitchenette with a sink, a tiny counter, and a mini fridge. A bistro table and two comfy chairs sit to the right. And to the left is the bed. I don’t even think I’d classify it as a double.

“We used to have bunk beds when the boys were young so they could have sleepovers out here, but I redecorated it when Dallas moved out, and now it’s our guesthouse. There’s a bathroom through there with a shower. And if you need anything, you just let me know.” She squeezes my shoulder. “When you’re settled, come up to the house and we’ll have a pre-engagement-party cocktail.” She winks and leaves me alone with Dallas.

He rolls my suitcase inside and drops his duffel on the floor before he hangs the garment bags on the coat hook and closes the door.

“What the fuck, Dallas?” I smack his chest.

“What did I do?”

I point to the bed. “It’s hardly big enough for one person, let alone two! What size is that even?”

“I think it’s a three-quarter bed. The frame belonged to my great-grandma Bippy, and obviously my mom couldn’t bear the thought of parting with it, so she put it in here. In her defense, it fits the space well.”

My stomach flips at the idea of having to lie beside Dallas in that tiny, tiny fucking bed and not give in to the chemistry raging between us. There isn’t even enough room on the floor for his enormous body. And he smells so fucking good.

There are zero chances that our bodies won’t touch in that bed. It’s too small. How will I resist him when we’re inches apart all night long?