Kissing Chaos (Havenwood #1)

1

Jett

“Come on, come on, come on,” I mumble as I wait for this slow-as-molasses elevator. The temptation to press the call button again is almost too much.

My therapy appointment is in less than five minutes, and I look like a wet dog standing in the lobby of this Atlanta high rise. I should have stayed in bed. This is my punishment for thinking traffic would have died down by ten in the morning.

It didn’t.

I even woke up early thanks to the rumbling of thunder shaking the house. Although, the being-ahead-of-schedule thing may have been the problem. False sense of security and all. I thought I had enough time to fix breakfast, so I threw together eggs, sausage, and a piece of toast.

It turns out reading while I cook and eat is a bad idea. I got lost in the pages of Siena Trap’s most recent hockey romance and forgot I had to leave the house. Then the I-285 connector was a nightmare, because no one knows how to drive in the rain.

Again, I should have expected it. I’m a Georgia girl, through and through.

When I finally arrived at my therapist’s office, the parking lot was full, so I had to park four blocks away and run to the building.

In the rain.

Without an umbrella.

Because why would I remember to grab the one I set by the door last night after checking the weather three times? Total craziness, I know.

And now this elevator is moving slower than a dial-up connection.

I sigh in relief as a ding finally signals the elevator’s arrival and the light on the call button turns off. I rush through the doors as soon as they open, turning and pressing the twenty-seven and then spamming the close button, all while cursing McKenna for forcing me to schedule this appointment for today. Groaning quietly, I shake my head at the overexaggeration.

I need this session. I know I do.

Stupid Joey. Stupid me for wasting two years with him. The worst part? I am obsessing over what I did wrong.

What did you do wrong, Jett? Nothing. Not a damn thing.

I have yet to give my best friend any details about what happened the day my ex left. I understand my brain well enough to know that I should talk to someone sooner rather than later, but I’m just not ready to share any of this with someone I know.

At least not with McKenna.

Definitely not with my brother, the only other constant in my chaotic life. Those are the only two people I could talk to. How sad is that? My dad doesn’t need the stress of his grown daughter’s breakup when he is two states away. My mom would just try to force me into more therapy if I mentioned my state of mind.

As the doors of the elevator close behind me, I lean my head back against the metal wall, taking long, slow breaths. The quiet instrumental music sounds like something from my teenage years, and I can’t help but nod along to the beat, letting some of the tension slip from my shoulders. No one was paying the weird, wet girl any attention in the lobby, but my brain is convinced that everyone was judging me.

Like anyone would want to look at this hot mess.

I tap my foot to the beat of the music pouring out of the speakers, relaxing more with each passing floor until the song cuts off mid-note. The elevator shutters a few seconds later and comes to a sudden halt, jarring me into the control panel. At first, I assume someone is about to get on with me. I close my eyes and lean against the back wall, willing myself to breathe through the anxiety of sharing a small space with random strangers. Except, why would the music have stopped?

My heart races against my chest at the realization that the elevator is no longer functional. I’m trapped in this metal death can. I slam the call button with my palm, but nothing happens. I press it again. And again.

My fingers tangle into my hair, pulling on the loose strands.

“No, no, no, no, no. This is not happening right now.”

Slipping my phone out of my back pocket, I’m torn between calling McKenna to panic or contacting the office a few floors above. It’s pointless, though, as there is zero cell service in here. Zilch. Nada.

Desperate, I hit the alarm button. A shrill chime fills the metal contraption and the surrounding elevator shaft. I pace in the small space, counting my steps while trying to keep my breathing even. Three steps across, pivot, three steps back. I hate that it’s an odd number, but changing the rhythm of my footfalls to adjust the number of steps feels too unnatural.

“Well, Jett. If you’d stuck with your plans out of high school to move to Kentucky and open a bookstore, you wouldn’t be in this mess,” I mumble to myself. “You could be living a quiet life in racehorse country instead of dealing with heartbreak.”

One hundred seventeen steps around the elevator later, a literal voice from above nearly scares the shit out of me.

“Anyone in there?” the deep, gruff voice asks.

“Yep,” I squeak, a hand clinging to my chest in an attempt to keep my pounding heart from taking a leap.

“Anyone injured or need medical assistance?”

I blink a few times, still trying to fight off the uneasy feeling of being trapped in this tube of death. “Um, no. I’m the only one in here. Scared shitless and could use a shot of whiskey, but I’m not injured.”

It sounds like the guy chokes back a laugh. I’m glad someone finds me funny, because I sure as hell don’t.

“Lucky for you, I was a few floors above you working on a different issue. Same elevator bank, so I heard the chime as soon as you triggered the alarm.”

“Lucky isn’t the word I’d use,” I say breathlessly as the singular thought of being trapped continues swirling around my brain. Trapped. In a metal box. Hundreds of feet up. “If you were close, why’d it take you so long to get over here?”

A solid thunk above me triggers the most undignified squeal—I don’t have anyone or anything to blame it on except that my nerves are shot.

“No reason for panic, ma’am. Storm just knocked out the power, and the generator didn’t transfer. Besides, ten minutes is better than the two hours it’d take the fire department, yeah? I’m going to drop onto the roof of the cab so that I can open the doors and help you step out, okay? The elevator may shake some, but you’re safe.”

I hum a response but still jump a little when I hear and feel him land on the roof above me.

“Still with me, ma’am?”

“Mmm, yep.”

“Want me to walk you through what I’m doing?”

“Sure. Why not?” Mumbling more to myself than to him, I add, “Nothing else to do.”

He chuckles, his voice trickling down to me. “Are you always this spicy? Or just today? You’re stuck between floors, so I’m going to disable the door restrictor and then manually roll open the car doors. You’re only a few inches above a floor, so you’ll be able to just step out.”

Moments later, the doors to this stupid contraption open to the most ruggedly handsome man I have ever seen.

“Holy fireballs.”

The words slip out before I can stop them. He looks at me somewhat perplexed, like there’s no way he heard me correctly. But hot damn, this guy is worth looking at. If he were a book boyfriend, his defined, scruff-covered jaw and dark, chocolate eyes would melt the panties right off the female lead in any less-freakishly terrifying moment. Even covered in what looks like soot, this guy is love-interest quality. Dark-brown hair peaks out from the ball cap he’s sporting, and his cotton uniform shirt clings to mile-wide shoulders. I wonder what they’d be like between—

No, Jett. Do not go there.

He’s not insanely tall—maybe five-foot-ten—but the space he consumes makes me feel minuscule in comparison. I swear I am trying to keep my eyes on his face, but they apparently have a mind of their own as they roam my rescuer’s fine form. When I finally force them up north, I nearly choke on an embarrassed laugh as I realize he is staring at me with a mix of what I think is amusement and bewilderment.

Damn it, Jett. Quit staring.

I clear my throat before finding my voice. “Thanks for, you know”—I motion behind me at the still-open elevator—“that, and all. Though I guess it’s probably part of your job. Otherwise, how would you know that stuff, right?” I groan, darting my eyes all around us, terrified of landing them on the scrumptious man who just saved me. “Sorry, I ramble when I’m nervous. Or stressed. Or really any time.”

Shut. Up. Jett.

“Noah.” The tin can hero holds out his hand as he introduces himself. “And it is in my job description, but you are very welcome.”

I slip my hand into his much larger, much rougher hand for only a moment before I pull back and begin fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.

So late. So, so late.

Shit. McKenna is going to kill me. Not really—she loves me too much—but we made a deal last night that I would make it to this appointment today and she would ask the single dad of one of her preschoolers out for coffee. I want my best friend to find her person even if I can’t find mine.

I need to get upstairs. And far away from this hunk of a man before my brain turns to mush and I make a fool of myself by drooling.

“I need to get up to the twenty-seventh floor. Where is the staircase?” I rush, looking around.

He points to the door at the end of the elevator bay. “Through that door. Each flight is numbered, so you shouldn’t have any issue finding twenty-seven.”

I thank him and practically race to it. As the door to the staircase closes behind me, I can’t help but think that I wouldn’t mind running into Noah again.

***

“I am sorry, Miss Taylor. You missed your session by over half an hour, and our next opening isn’t until tomorrow.”

Of course, the power was restored while I was racing up the stairwell, so the computers were up and running in my therapist’s office by the time I made it to their floor.

“I’ve been here, though,” I plead, my hands clenching and unclenching as I try, and fail, to keep it all together. “I was stuck in the elevator and had to wait for help.”

“I understand that, ma’am. However, we only had a thirty-minute appointment set for you today, and the patient following you was on time for hers.”

My eyes close in defeat, the weight of all the recent drama in my life once again crushing me. My voice is nearly a whine as I ask, “Is anyone else available to meet with me today? I’ll wait all day if I have to.”

The receptionist looks at me with a mix of pity and annoyance but sighs before scrolling through the appointment app on her computer. The second sigh that leaves her lips tells me everything I need to know. “I am sorry, but it looks like everyone is booked up.”

My shoulders slump as my chin trembles, this morning’s insanity finally clashing with my own.

I’m making my way toward the door when the receptionist takes pity on me and says, “There is a psychiatrist who offers emergency sessions in the afternoons, if you want her contact information.”

Can I set the month of January on fire, please?

Anxiety rages war on my stomach and pulse as I try to accept my reality that I am now one of those patients needing an emergency mental health session. Nibbling on my bottom lip, I nod. Pinky promises are serious business.

I can do this.

“Where is she located?”

“Havenwood.”

I jolt back a little. “Havenwood?”

The receptionist nods, oblivious to my shock. “Yes, ma’am. If you make your way to I-20 and—”

“My brother lives in Havenwood. You mean to tell me that I’ve had a closer option within this practice for the last two years?”

“Miss Taylor, Dr. Kristen Flynn just recently transitioned to a small personal office. She is technically no longer a partner in this practice, but I can assure you she is wonderful at her job. And she keeps afternoons open for those individuals who find themselves in unexpected situations.” Her smile is reassuring, though my heart and head are anything but.

Reassured, that is.

The thought of someone new seeing inside my head is daunting. I’ve seen the same therapist for the last two years, having only recently admitted to some of my more intimate struggles. The ones my family doesn’t know about.

What is there to see? Depression and a solid thunk when I hit rock bottom?

Eyes clenched shut, bottom lip firmly between my teeth, I nod again. “I’ll take the number.” No point in putting off the inevitable.

***

The trembling in my fingers almost has my phone falling to the ground as I dial Dr. Kristen Wilson-Flynn’s office. I haven’t made it to the stairwell yet—no way am I getting back on the elevators after the massive failure earlier. Though I wouldn’t mind running into that mechanic from earlier again. I have a feeling he’ll be embedded in my memories for a while.

As the phone line rings, I steel myself for someone to answer. If I wait until I am in my car, I’ll chicken out. Calling strangers, scheduling appointments—I prefer to do all of that online. No need to have human interactions when it isn’t necessary.

Maybe that sounds a little too hermit-y.

If the shoe fits…right?

People make me nervous. I never know how to interact with strangers, and I always zone out into a daydream when I should be following along with whatever story or tidbit is being shared.

I’ve never been good at friendships or relationships—not being mentally present, creating stories when I should be focusing on any given task, and not hearing what anyone says until their words process a few seconds later doesn’t lead to deep connections. It wasn’t until I was twenty-three and struggling with a college assignment during my final semester that I finally talked to someone about my lack of focus—or rather, hyper focus on the wrong thing—and completed an ADHD assessment. Tada. Two decades of struggles explained in an hour.

The phone in my hand quits ringing before a motherly voice travels through the speaker. “Dr. Wilson-Flynn’s office. This is Willa. What can I do for you?”

Words stick in my throat for just a moment before I say, “Yes, hi. The receptionist at my regular therapist’s office said you might have an appointment for me? I mean, she said you guys—er, Dr. Kristen—sometimes kept afternoons if it was important. They can’t see me here today and”—I stutter over my words—“I don’t know. I’m hoping you can help me out?” It ends in a question. I almost resume my rambling, but the receptionist beats me to it.

“What is your name, sweetie?”

My back presses into the wall as I try to slow my heart rate. I can do this.

“Jennette Taylor, but I go by Jett.”

“Hi, Jett. Our office is right off the square in Havenwood. What time can you be here?”

“I’m about an hour away, but I can head straight there from Atlanta.”

“Okay, Jett. I’m putting you down for one thirty this afternoon. Does that work for you?”

I nod, unable to believe how unfazed she is by my unscheduled, spur of the moment appointment, before remembering she can’t see me. “Oh, yes ma’am. I’ll be there. Thank you.”

“Not a problem at all, sweetie. We look forward to meeting you.”