The Billionaire’s Secret Love (A 'Scandals of the Bad Boy Billionaires' Romance) by Alexa Wilder, Ivy Layne Page B
Authors: Alexa Wilder, Ivy Layne
Ads: Link
as successful and accomplished as Tate Winters was horrifying and depressing. I couldn't explain, but I had to apologize. Fumbling with my phone, I wrote,
I'm sorry.
I didn't know what else to say. ‘Thank you for a nice dinner’ didn't come close.
Tate texted back, Are you at home? Are you okay?
At home. Not really okay , I answered.
What happened?
And there it was. I wanted to blow him off so I wouldn’t have to tell the truth. A lie would be so much easier. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I wasn't a good liar at the best of times, and Tate deserved better than that from me. He hadn't done anything wrong. I was the one who was fucked up. It wasn't fair to let him think this was his fault. Forcing my fingers to move, I wrote,
Sorry. It wasn't you.
I hit send and stared at what I'd written, knowing it wasn't enough. Sucking in a deep breath, I forced myself to keep going.
I have panic attacks.
I hit Send again, feeling as if I’d thrown myself off the side of a cliff, my stomach tight and nauseated, my ears ringing.
Was that a panic attack? In my office?
It was close , I admitted. I'm sorry , I typed again.
Don't be sorry , he answered almost immediately. Can I call you? I want to talk to you.
My first instinct was to say no, but that was always my first instinct when I felt this way. The panic made me want to pull the covers over my head and hide for the rest of my life. It was wrong. I knew that. Sometimes, saying no was the smart answer. This was not one of those times.
K.
A second later, my phone rang in my hand, sending a shock of sheer, icy panic through me. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second before I accepted Tate's call.
"Emily," he said, his voice unbearably gentle. "I'm sorry."
My breath hitched as I said, “No, I’m sorry. I'm sorry, Tate. It was a really nice date. The best date. I'm just fucked up. I'm not normal. I don't do normal things. I shouldn't have gone out with you. I should've known that would happen."
"Emily, no,” he protested. “You're not fucked up. It's okay. We can try again."
I didn't know how to explain it to him. How to make him understand. "Tate, it's just too much. I don't know what we're doing. I don't know how to date someone. I just can't."
There was a long silence, so long that I wondered if he'd hung up. I checked the screen of my phone and saw the timer on the call ticking upward. He was still there, just not talking. Finally, he said, “Don't give up on us. We'll figure it out. I think there's something good between us, and I don't want to walk away. We can take it slow. Slower. Whatever you need. Just don't give up."
I didn't want to give up. I wanted to try again. How long would it take before Tate got sick of dealing with me? Did it matter? If I walked away now, I wouldn't have him, anyway. I knew from experience that the only way to deal with my anxiety was to face it head on, no matter how awful it would feel.
I hadn't freaked out from spending time with Tate. I'd actually been surprisingly relaxed and at ease with him. It was the sex that had freaked me out. It had been too much, and I was too inexperienced. Tate was offering to go slow, but maybe slow was the opposite of what I needed. Maybe I needed to just suck it up and get it over with so the whole sex thing wasn't such a big, scary unknown. The thought grew in my mind. As crazy as it was, it felt right. I trusted Tate. He hadn't pushed me, and he'd said he was willing to be patient.
"Emily?" he asked, and I realized I'd been sitting there thinking for too long.
"We should have sex," I said in a rush.
"That's not taking it slow," Tate said, sounding confused. That made two of us.
"It's not sex itself that freaks me out," I tried to explain. "It's just that I haven't done it before.”
"You haven't done it before?" Tate asked.
"No," I admitted. "I've been doing really well with the whole anxiety thing, but new things are always a problem. I don't know what I'm doing, and I think that's
I'm sorry.
I didn't know what else to say. ‘Thank you for a nice dinner’ didn't come close.
Tate texted back, Are you at home? Are you okay?
At home. Not really okay , I answered.
What happened?
And there it was. I wanted to blow him off so I wouldn’t have to tell the truth. A lie would be so much easier. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I wasn't a good liar at the best of times, and Tate deserved better than that from me. He hadn't done anything wrong. I was the one who was fucked up. It wasn't fair to let him think this was his fault. Forcing my fingers to move, I wrote,
Sorry. It wasn't you.
I hit send and stared at what I'd written, knowing it wasn't enough. Sucking in a deep breath, I forced myself to keep going.
I have panic attacks.
I hit Send again, feeling as if I’d thrown myself off the side of a cliff, my stomach tight and nauseated, my ears ringing.
Was that a panic attack? In my office?
It was close , I admitted. I'm sorry , I typed again.
Don't be sorry , he answered almost immediately. Can I call you? I want to talk to you.
My first instinct was to say no, but that was always my first instinct when I felt this way. The panic made me want to pull the covers over my head and hide for the rest of my life. It was wrong. I knew that. Sometimes, saying no was the smart answer. This was not one of those times.
K.
A second later, my phone rang in my hand, sending a shock of sheer, icy panic through me. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second before I accepted Tate's call.
"Emily," he said, his voice unbearably gentle. "I'm sorry."
My breath hitched as I said, “No, I’m sorry. I'm sorry, Tate. It was a really nice date. The best date. I'm just fucked up. I'm not normal. I don't do normal things. I shouldn't have gone out with you. I should've known that would happen."
"Emily, no,” he protested. “You're not fucked up. It's okay. We can try again."
I didn't know how to explain it to him. How to make him understand. "Tate, it's just too much. I don't know what we're doing. I don't know how to date someone. I just can't."
There was a long silence, so long that I wondered if he'd hung up. I checked the screen of my phone and saw the timer on the call ticking upward. He was still there, just not talking. Finally, he said, “Don't give up on us. We'll figure it out. I think there's something good between us, and I don't want to walk away. We can take it slow. Slower. Whatever you need. Just don't give up."
I didn't want to give up. I wanted to try again. How long would it take before Tate got sick of dealing with me? Did it matter? If I walked away now, I wouldn't have him, anyway. I knew from experience that the only way to deal with my anxiety was to face it head on, no matter how awful it would feel.
I hadn't freaked out from spending time with Tate. I'd actually been surprisingly relaxed and at ease with him. It was the sex that had freaked me out. It had been too much, and I was too inexperienced. Tate was offering to go slow, but maybe slow was the opposite of what I needed. Maybe I needed to just suck it up and get it over with so the whole sex thing wasn't such a big, scary unknown. The thought grew in my mind. As crazy as it was, it felt right. I trusted Tate. He hadn't pushed me, and he'd said he was willing to be patient.
"Emily?" he asked, and I realized I'd been sitting there thinking for too long.
"We should have sex," I said in a rush.
"That's not taking it slow," Tate said, sounding confused. That made two of us.
"It's not sex itself that freaks me out," I tried to explain. "It's just that I haven't done it before.”
"You haven't done it before?" Tate asked.
"No," I admitted. "I've been doing really well with the whole anxiety thing, but new things are always a problem. I don't know what I'm doing, and I think that's
Similar Books
