Alexa

I feel my hand slipping from his, but I'm not ready to let go. I reach out, desperately trying to grab hold of anything to keep him with me. I feel silk beneath my fingers. I pull hard. He has to come back to me, but all I'm left with is a torn piece of green silk fabric.

The tires squeal as the cab jolts to a halt in front of my condo building, slamming me into the back of the passenger seat. I slowly unstick myself from the seat before trying to catch my breath. My heart is fluttering faster than a hummingbird's wings. I attempt to breathe but only manage a wheezing sound. I wave at the cab driver to try to get his attention, to alert him that I can't breathe, but he is engrossed in his phone, not paying any attention to me.

I feel my anxiety increasing. Hot and dizzy. My chest is tightening around my heart — squeezing it to death, and not letting it beat. I'm going to die right here in the backseat of a cab that smells like sweat and smoke, next to an old fast food wrapper. My skin is burning hotter. In a matter of seconds, I expect to be engulfed in flames. I'm going to die. I claw at the door to let in the air so I can breathe. But it doesn't budge. Trapped without air, my lungs burn with each breath. Just let death be quick. "Miss," a voice says barely audible over my pounding heart. I wait for the voice to come back. "Miss Blakely," it says this time calmly. "You are having a panic attack. You are not going to die. Take a deep breath," says the voice I now recognize as my therapist. I take a deep breath wincing at the deep burn as I fill my lungs with air again. I take another deep breath and listen to the rhythm of the waves I faintly hear in the distance. Each breath is calmer than the previous one. Each breath expands my lungs and the space around my heart to release it from its cage and let it beat.

"Miss, the ride's thirty—four fifty." I open my eyes to look at the cab driver, not my therapist, sitting in front of me. He wears an annoyed expression as he waits for me to hand him his money. I'm still visibly shaking from my attack, but at least I'm breathing. I dig a shaky, sweaty hand into my purse and pull out two twenties. I awkwardly climb out of the cab with my two plastic bags of groceries, purse, and crutches in hand. The cab speeds off the second I close the door; the driver doesn't bother to help me into the building.

"Asshole," I mumble under my breath.

I look up at the towering building in front of me. Afternoon light bounces off its shiny, modern surface making me squint. Floor—to—ceiling windows cover every surface and make it look more like an office building. If it weren't for the balconies protruding from the sides, nobody would know that people live behind its icy façade. I sigh at the daunting task before me. I have to make it through the lobby, to the elevator, and up to my eighth—floor condo before I can collapse on my bed.

I take a deep breath of calm, salty, ocean air before I move my crutches forward, swing my body through, and land on my left leg. I repeat the process several times before I make it to the doors of my condo building. Each step I take is agony. I'm already sweating profusely from just the first five steps. I'd prefer to just pass out on the cold marble floor in the lobby, rather than take the next hundred steps to my unit. I open the door and move through as quickly as possible, but the door swings shut and catches my right crutch. I tumble onto my ass for the fifth time this week.

Shit! When will I learn? I lie on the cool floor for several seconds, not moving. At least I got my wish. If it weren't for the large windows surrounding me, the light almost blinding as it bounces off the large chandelier above me, taunting me with its beauty that I no longer possess, it would be so easy to just fall asleep right here on the cold floor. I look to my left. Most of my groceries have rolled and tumbled well out of my reach toward the sleek white couches lining the wall of windows that look out over the beach. It's not worth my effort to gather them all. I'll just order pizza again. Eating healthy is not worth the trouble. I glance to my right where a large white desk sits vacant. Thank god, no one witnessed my embarrassing fall. I close my eyes, contemplating my next move.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" a deep voice says to me.

"I'm not a ma'am," I say, not bothering to open my eyes or move. He's confirmed that I'm not dead, so I expect him to leave me alone. I have learned after living in LA for the past three months that the people here aren't any more considerate than the people in NYC are. I exhale when I hear the lobby door swing shut again.

"I'm such a disaster," I mumble to myself.

The same deep voice laughs. "A beautiful disaster." I open my eyes and see golden brown eyes peering curiously at me. I slowly sit up and gulp at the sight in front of me. He grins and my cheeks burn a bright shade of red. His dark brown hair is tousled; it doesn't look like he's ever combed it. Dark stubble covers his strong chin and neck. He's not wearing a shirt — just shorts and running shoes, which allow me to see every perfect muscle glistening from the sweat covering his body. Tattoos cover his torso and arms. Beautiful. I realize I'm staring, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from him if I wanted. He's too beautiful. I feel my heart racing again, my breath quickening and the sweat forming have nothing to do with my earlier panic attack.

He gently places one finger under my chin, raising it to close my gaping mouth. I flush a shade redder, but I don't stop staring. He has a gleam in his eyes as he looks intently from my mouth to my eyes and then my forehead.

"Shit, you're bleeding," he says, breaking the spell that has come over me.

"I'm sure I'm fine. I just need to get back to my condo," I say as I begin to stand. He offers his hand to me, and I take it as he easily pulls me into a standing position. He holds onto my sweaty hand for much longer than what is necessary for me to regain my balance. I stare up at him now as he towers over me before he quickly jogs around the lobby picking up every apple, orange, and tube of Pringles that rolled out of my bags when I fell. My mouth gapes open again, but no words come out. I just stand frozen.

"Breathe," he says, smiling. My face heats up again as I release a breath I didn't know I had been holding. Get it together. You can't be into him. It's too soon. I reach into my pocket to feel the warm green fabric there. It reminds me of what I've lost and what I am not willing to lose again. I take a pained breath as I let the guilt wash away.

"Come on. Let me help you to your condo."

My mouth moves to form the word 'no,' but it would be so much easier with his help. So instead, I follow him to the bank of elevators at the far end of the lobby. He presses the button and the doors open immediately. We enter in silence.

"What floor?" he asks, as the doors begin closing.

"Eighth," I respond, trying not to look at him and embarrass myself again.

But I still see the crooked grin he flashes me out of the corner of my eye. This time I see a hint of dimples I didn't see before. "So what's your name?"

"Alex … ah," I respond in a voice barely audible. Dammit! Why is it so hard for me to act like a normal human being around this man? He's good looking, sure, but he has heartbreaker written all over that smug grin.

"Alex what?"

I open my mouth to correct him but snap it shut quickly. My name is Alexa, not Alex, but coming from his mouth, Alex sounds perfect. He doesn't need to know anything else about me. As soon as we get to my condo, I plan to get rid of him and will never see him again.

"Just Alex. So who is my rescuer?"

A surprised look crosses his face, confusing me. "The name's Landon. Just Landon."

I give him a weak smile back. The elevator doors open, and he holds them to give me time to get out without crashing again. We reach my condo after winding down the long hall, and I dig through my purse to find my keys. I fumble with the key in the door before it finally unlatches. I walk past the kitchen that opens into my living room, heading straight for my couch. Collapsing on it, I let my crutches fall to the floor, finally feeling like I can breathe again. I frown at the closed drapes across from me, blocking my view of the ocean. I'll have to get up again to open them, so I can see the waves as I drift off to sleep.

"You can just set the bags on the counter in the kitchen," I say, not bothering to turn my head to him.

"Did you just move in?" he asks, striding around my condo, examining all the boxes lining most of my walls. He walks as if he owns the place. Not like a stranger should. I look around at the neatly stacked boxes that I haven't been able to bring myself to unpack. When I do, it means this is real. This is my home. And I don't know if this should be my home or not.

"Sort of," I answer.

I hear Landon digging around in one of the boxes in the kitchen, but I don't have the strength to lift myself off the couch. He can rob me for all I care, just as long as he doesn't take this couch so I can sleep. I hear him run the faucet in the kitchen and then walk toward the couch. He kneels on the floor next to my head before pressing the wet washcloth to my forehead. I shiver despite the washcloth being warm. He continues to hold the washcloth to my forehead for several minutes. Neither of us really speaks, and I just close my eyes to try to relax. I expect him to ask questions about my leg or my still bruised face, but he doesn't. I realize, as I look down at my leg, that he can't see the damage. My long skirt keeps it hidden. I've never been more thankful to be wearing a skirt in my life. If he saw my damaged leg, he wouldn't be able to get out of here fast enough. He wouldn't be wasting any time on me, even if he is just trying to be nice. The scars covering my face, arms, and chest are usually enough to scare everyone away, which allows me to spend most of my time by myself. And that's how I like it.

He removes the washcloth. "I think the bleeding has stopped. Do you need help unpacking?" It takes me longer to answer than it should, as the smell of his sweet sweat and deodorant has distracted me. I'm a little shocked at how nice he is being. It seems out of character for the model bad boy in front of me.

"No, I can manage," I say, as I move to get up to let him out.

"You stay," he commands as if I'm a dog. "I can let myself out."

I lie back down, despite how I hate when people order me around. I just really need to sleep. The afternoons are the only time I get a reprieve from the darkness that consumes me at night, giving me only a few hours to sleep before the darkness comes for me.

I watch as he moves to a box labeled pillows and blankets. He pulls a blanket out and drapes it over me. I close my eyes to hide the tear I feel escaping and falling down my face. The blanket still smells like him.