Larissa Learns to Breathe by Ruby Laska

watered. But just as she was about to reach for one of the plates, they were both snatched away. She looked up to see a group of young women who she hadn’t noticed earlier. They were dressed nicely, and enjoying a lively conversation.
    â€œExcuse me,” Larissa said, a little more loudly than she intended. “That’s my crème brulee.”
    It was hers, wasn’t it? She was getting a little fuzzy about the details, but she was pretty sure she’d seen it first. And honestly, these women had already had dinner, plus they hadn’t had to get up at three a.m. to make a flight out of LaGuardia at six. Without thinking, Larissa reached for the plate that one of the young women was holding. Then they were both tugging at it. The girl looked confused, and for a moment Larissa tried to explain the whole situation to her, but she gave up and just grunted and tugged.
    She almost had it. In fact, she did have it—long enough to flip it up into the air, so that the sweet mass of delectable dessert slid out of its ramekin and spun in a lazy turn, all in slow motion. The ramekin flew toward the girl and smacked her right in the forehead, and before Larissa could react, the mass of crème splatted wetly against her chest and slid down into her cleavage, disappearing into the front of her dress. It was cold and clammy, and Larissa clutched at it and shrieked and her heel got caught on something and she felt herself falling backward, and in that split second she had a flash of total clarity and realized with horror that she hadn’t been fun and bright and scintillating at Amelia’s table, she’d been just plain drunk , and now she’d started a food fight with a group of strangers.
    She gave up and let herself fall, hoping she’d hit her head on something that wouldn’t kill her but would put her into a coma that would blessedly make her forget the whole evening and keep her in the hospital until everyone else forgot too. She waited for the impact, the shock of pain and the sound of her skull cracking, but instead she felt herself caught in a pair of strong, muscular arms.
    â€œOkay, darlin,’ that’s probably about enough for one night,” a familiar voice drawled. Tommy. Of course, it had to be Tommy who witnessed her terrible shame.
    â€œTake me out of here,” she whispered. “Please. I never want to see those women again.”
    â€œWell, that might be a little much to ask,” Tommy said. Then he picked her up as though she weighed nothing and started carrying her toward the exit. “Seeing as how they work for you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Someone was knocking on the window.
    Larissa had been taking her time emerging from the mound of blankets and pillows under which she’d spent the night, on the theory that moving slowly would diminish the effects of her hangover. It had only taken her a split second to remember where she was when she woke up—breathing the scent of jasmine took care of that—but the rest of the details of the day before came back slowly, each new memory plunging her further into despair.
    She’d had too much to drink and started a food fight with the women who she would be supervising. She’d been given this one last chance at a career, and she’d sunk it before it even set sail. Someone would have emailed Mr. Westermere by now—the eyes of every single person on the patio had been glued on her as Tommy practically carried her away—and the best that she could hope for was that he would fire her before the staff meeting rather than after, so that she could be spared the humiliation of facing them all again.
    There was the knocking again. More of a whapping than a knocking, actually. Didn’t people use the front door around here? Or had Larissa somehow slept through it? A thought occurred to her—no one knew that she was staying in Tommy’s room; what if it was a woman looking for Tommy? A