Chapter 1 #2
If I hadn’t been so close to tears, I would have snorted.
There it was. Stephanie Addams, the girl who always got left behind.
The girl no one wants. She was right, but I guessed most of her jealousy was fueled by our—unknown to me at the time—rivalry for the PA position.
She’d been a longtime employee, and I’d been the newcomer.
I shifted to ease the growing cramps in my calves, silently cursing the strappy black velvet heels my bestie, Liz, insisted I wear.
Crouching at this angle threatened to topple me face-first into the shiny silver wrapping paper.
Heels were not made for ducking. Or really for any other defying-Superwoman odds.
Run in these deathtraps? Not on your life.
Anika laughed, caustic and grating. “Right? She’s not the kind of woman any man wants. I don’t know what Nash sees in her. He could have the best, and he settled for her? Sure, she’s competent, but she’s nothing special.”
The knife twisted deeper. I was… a lot. Two little words with the force of a wrecking ball.
I shut my eyes against the burning tears as they drifted away.
At my office Christmas party, I was weird because I didn’t have a significant other at my side.
I would have brought Liz, but she’d already scheduled a date night with her fiancé.
Fundamentally I knew I didn’t need a man to be complete or have worth.
I knew this. Nana had hammered that into me ever since I was small.
Nana, with her strong faith, worn Bible, and an answer for everything, had raised me when my mom left and my dad decided he didn’t want the responsibility of raising me any more than he’d wanted to raise his first five kids with any of his previous wives.
Your only worth comes from your Heavenly Father, baby girl. No man can ever define you when Jesus already has.
I needed to call Nana this weekend. Her soothing voice always eased my tattered edges.
Because despite the strong walls around my heart, the cruel words slithered their way to the still-raw wounds beneath.
It wasn’t the first time someone decided to comment on my perpetual singleness.
Just last week at church, one of the deacon’s wives, a genuinely sweet woman, had patted my hand and said with a pitying smile, “You’re not getting any younger, dear.
There’s lots of nice young men around. Maybe you’re being too particular. ”
I was only twenty-eight, and after the life I’d lived, I had every right to be particular.
A man who wouldn’t walk out on me was my baseline requirement.
Funny how married folks talked as if singleness was the greatest evil of the human existence.
I’d rather be comfortably single than uncomfortably married to the wrong person.
But the words hit their mark just the same. I wasn’t enough on my own. And I was so tired of being alone.
Gripping my empty La Croix, I jogged out of the kitchen, swiping at my blurry eyes. My heels caught on the carpet in the hallway, throwing me off balance. I groped the wall for support, narrowly missing the fire alarm. Wouldn’t that just take the cake tonight.
“Stupid shoes,” I muttered, sniffing hard.
I needed to make it to the restroom and assess my makeup before I could plaster a smile on my face and mingle until I could duck out without raising suspicions.
Show Nash some team spirit before I went home to my pile of knitting and binging Christmas movies. Solo.
A wave of dizziness gripped me as I neared the corner of the deserted hallway. Uh-oh. I’d stood up too fast without giving my blood pressure a chance to regulate. If my emotions hadn’t hustled me into such a frenzy, I just—
Oof! I rammed into a solid wall, too warm to be drywall. My bell earrings—a gift from Liz last year—jangled at the abrupt halt of motion. Steady hands gripped my flailing elbows, anchoring me upright.
“Whoa there! Stephanie?”
Humiliation flooded my veins at being caught in such a state, and I kept my head down.
I knew that voice… Oh, how I knew that voice.
Nothing said Merry Christmas like smashing into the handsome boss you’d been secretly crushing on for two years, only to have him find you with raccoon eyes, running away from his mandatory holiday celebration.
Because naturally I hadn’t bothered with waterproof mascara since I wasn’t planning on crying tonight. Rookie move.
“Nash. I was just… It’s nothing.” But it sure felt like a whole lot of something.
The world tilted, and my eyes slid shut against the sudden wave of light-headedness.
I tried tugging away from his grasp, but the blood drained from my head so fast I saw stars.
My knees buckled, and I toppled face-first into his chest, his arms snaking around my waist, keeping me from falling.
“Steph!” Panic laced the word, and Nash gripped me tighter. If I’d been more coherent, I’d have basked in the warmth of him using the nickname only my best friends and a few close family members used.
“I’m okay,” I murmured against his chest, the soft cotton of his black dress shirt caressing my cheek. Was shirt thread count a thing? ‘Cuz his was glorious.
His arms shifted me closer. “I’ve got you,” he whispered in my ear.
“Need… to sit.”
Despite my awkwardly limp limbs, Nash guided me to a sitting position on the floor, and I tucked my legs against my chest, belatedly remembering I was wearing a dress. My head drooped against my knees, ears ringing, but I managed to situate my clothing so I didn’t flash anyone.
“Just give me a minute,” I whispered into my dress, hoping he heard me. “It’ll pass.” It always does.
I heard the soft scuff of shoes and a momentary shuffle before his long leg pressed against mine.
One of my hands was encased in his, resting against his soft grey slacks.
I didn’t remember grabbing his hand on the way down.
But I didn’t dare lift my head to ask if he minded.
Besides, the touch was way too comforting to give up, and if he wasn’t protesting, well then, I wasn’t going to question it.
In for four. Out for four. I inhaled slowly through my nose and blew out through my mouth.
Hopefully this episode wouldn’t lead to fainting.
Another rookie move, crouching behind that present and getting up too fast. It had been fifteen years since my diagnosis with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome.
I knew better than to rush about like a scatterbrained chicken.
Slow, controlled movements equaled regulated blood pressure.
Too bad my emotions didn’t get that memo tonight.
Nash said nothing. Just stroked my knuckles with his thumb and waited beside me while I fought against the paralyzing tidal wave of blackness and gravity’s intent to splatter me on the floor like a snow angel—without the snow.
When the overwhelming feeling of the world being a Tilt-a-Whirl faded, I pivoted my neck to glance at him.
My millionaire boss, Nash Prescott, was sitting on the ground in a blessedly empty hallway…
with me. Looking absolutely perfect with his soulful espresso eyes, rimmed by extremely attractive dark-rimmed glasses, and his precisely tousled dark chocolate hair that curled at the ends.
He needs a haircut before the holidays. I mentally added the task to my checklist.
“Will you be okay here for a minute?” Nash asked, concern infusing his voice when he noticed my staring.
Even though I nodded, he hesitated to release my hand, his eyes flickering with doubt. But he hopped up and his muffled footsteps trailed down the hall. In a heartbeat, he returned, wordlessly extending a stack of damp napkins.
“Thanks.” I swiped the first one under my eyes, wincing as it revealed the tell-tale smudges of mascara. A few more damp napkins later, and I was officially raccoon eyes-free.
“Are you all right?” Nash’s low timbre was soft and serious, despite our lack of company on the carpeted hallway floor. I might be able to laugh about this someday.
“I have POTS,” I said simply. “It makes my blood pressure drop ridiculously low, and my body equates a change in position, like from sitting to standing, to be a strenuous task. Usually it just makes me severely dizzy and my heart pound really fast, but I faint sometimes.” I shrugged, straightening my dress over my legs.
Nash blinked in horror before his dark eyes traced my face, like he was filing away this information for later. “How did I not know this? We’ve worked together for two years and been friends nearly as long.”
Friends. Such a hard word to swallow. I twitched my shoulder in a half shrug, making my earrings jingle. “It’s not exactly something I advertise. My case is manageable, so it’s not a huge inconvenience. I just have to be smart.”
“Like your preference for the elevator over the stairs? Or why you always stand up from your desk slowly and have an aversion to sports?”
I stared at him. He noticed those things? Noticed me? And why, instead of feeling embarrassed about it, were my shoulders relaxing? Okay, the sports one was a bit of a stretch. Sure, my POTS affected it a little, but truthfully, I just hated intense physical exercise.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly.
Only in my dreams. At thirty-three, Nash Prescott was a multimillionaire and just my type…
if he wasn’t my boss. But I was so far out of his league he would never think of me like that, and after what Anika and Samantha said, I doubted any man ever would.
It wasn’t just their words that hurt—it was how close their observations lined up with my own fears.
If others saw the same flaws in me that I did, didn’t that make them true?
To my prolonged silence, Nash added, his rare Texas twang slipping out just a hint, “Anythin’, Stephanie. Name it.”