Our eyes stayed locked as his thumbs stroked a steady rhythm on the inside of my wrists, and slowly—so slowly—my breathing eased to match the pace of those strokes. My throat loosened in increments so small they couldn’t be measured.

Minutes. Hours. I wasn’t certain how long he stayed there, kneeling in front of me, witnessing my utter meltdown, but soon another voice cut through the fog.

“My phone,” I croaked. “Can you—”

“Got it.” He grabbed my phone and put it to his ear, still stroking my wrist with his other thumb. “Morgan’s not feeling well. Can she call you—”

“Help her.” Air filled my lungs in great heaps, but the immovable ache in my throat remained.

“This is Jax Montgomery. I’m Morgan’s neighbor. She just asked if I could help you. What exactly do you need?” His brows rose slightly as he listened to the reply. “Got it. Morgan, do you want me to get the registration from the truck?”

I nodded. “Glove box.”

His lips pursed as he glanced between my eyes and the open door. “Will you be okay for a second?”

I nodded again. It was safer than trusting my vocal cords.

“Give me just a minute,” he said into my phone. Then he stroked the side of my face, brushing that thumb over my cheekbone. “Just keep breathing.”

My metronome vanished as he climbed into the cab. I heard shuffling, then the sound of the glove box opening.

His strong, sure voice read her the information she’d need to insure the truck properly, giving her the VIN number and then pausing before saying, “It’s registered to William Carter—wait, there’s a transfer signed here by Arthur Livingston, Personal Representative to Morgan E. Bartley. Right. I’ll tell her. Is that all? Okay, you, too. Bye.” The glove box snapped shut, and a few breaths later, I managed to turn my head to see Jackson step down from the cab, tall enough that he actually fit the damned truck. He was easily four inches taller than Will had been, wider in the shoulders, too.

Stop comparing them.

I tried to do the mental exercise I’d watched on YouTube, where I visualized myself shoving all my thoughts about Will into the neat little box in my head and slamming the lid shut.

“All done,” Jackson said, dropping to my eye level.

“Thank you.” I focused on the sand as my face flushed hot.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, I let my eyes travel upward until I met his.

“You have panic attacks. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” His gaze bore into mine, driving home the sincerity of his words.

“Anxiety attacks,” I corrected him. The ache in my throat flared, and I knew it wouldn’t recede until I took my rescue meds, which happened to be back at the B&B.