Page 10 of Safe Hands
For once, the reassurance didn’t quite work, even from the source.
“Yeah. I know.”
“I have absolute faith in you.”
Paige’s attention was now fully trained on where the men’s committee had colonised the far end of the bar. Their chairman Greg had Becky pinned against it. Even from here Lauren could see Jenna working the gap between the two committee camps like a referee who’d lost her whistle, all the while failing to notice her friend’s distress.
“Listen, I need to rescue Becky from a social situation, but I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” Paige said, already half gone. “I’m still here for you.”
Lauren nodded. She knew Paige was still there for her, but it would never be the same. She had other priorities.
Needing a moment, Lauren weaved through the crowd to the toilet block and sealed herself in a cubicle. She sat on the closed lid and pulled out her phone. There had to be some other explanation for her rocky emotional state, so she opened her menstrual tracker app.
Three days until her next period.
Good. This wasn’t a breakdown. This was straightforward PMT.
“Just breathe,” she whispered.
Lauren unlocked the door and bent over the sinks, splashing cold water onto her wrists and repeating the instruction.
“Are you talking to yourself or the plumbing?”
Her eyes snapped open. A woman stood at the next sink, adjusting her mascara in a cracked mirror.
“You look lost,” the stranger said when Lauren gawped back at her.
“Not lost. Just friendless.” Lauren shook water from her hands. “Should’ve brought Reggie along as my support pup.”
The woman’s gaze flicked towards her reflection. “You have a dog?”
“Used to. He belongs to my housemate, and she moved out. Now I talk to sinks.”
“Maybe you need your own dog. And a new housemate. Problem solved.”
“Wow. Ruthless.”
“Military training. I’d kill you if I had to.”
Lauren dried her hands on her jeans. She always seemed drawn to women who could ruin her, usually emotionally rather than physically. This one looked as if she could do both.
“On brand,” Lauren muttered. “Army, Air Force, or Navy?”
“What do you think?”
Lauren gave her the once-over. Navy blazer. Tanned hands. Sun-streaked hair scraped into a tight knot. Broad shoulders that suggested she could bench-press Lauren without smudging her make-up.
“Navy SEAL?”
The woman clapped once, sharp and sarcastic. “No. They’re American.”
“Fur seal?”
That earned a genuine laugh. “Yes. Nailed it.”
The woman adjusted her waistband, gave herself one last check in the mirror, and turned. She held out a hand.
Lauren took it, but the laughter vanished the moment their palms met.
