Wild in the Field by Jennifer Greene Page A

spun back. Midshow, the lobbies and halls were library-quiet, so when he heard the crack of a metal door at the end of the far hall, he immediately keeled around, guessing it had to be Cam. He caught a glimpse of red—the shoulder of her red long-sleeved T-shirt—just before the door closed again.
    Guilt clogged his throat. Not a little guilt. A whole steam shovelful. Maybe he’d never been the ultrasensitive type of guy, but he wasn’t usually this bad a jerk.How could he have done this to her? What was he thinking?
    His palm slapped the back door open—which made his hand hurt like hell, but didn’t assuage the guilt worth beans.
    And there she was.
    The theater’s back door led to nothing but a parking lot and some scruffy woods. The sun was a red ball, hiding in those leafy trees, dropping fast now. The real world was only a block away—he could hear traffic sounds, even distant voices—but here, there was literally nothing and no one. A chill sneaked behind the evening sunshine, putting a brisk bite in the air.
    And Camille had sunk down on the cement curb, arms wrapped around her knees, just kind of rocking herself with her eyes squeezed closed. She never opened her eyes or looked back, yet before he said a single word, she piped up, “Pete, I’m fine. Go back inside with the boys. I’ll come back in. I just needed some air.”
    Okay. So Camille had easily guessed that he’d follow her—but he should have easily guessed how the movie was likely to affect her. The kids had pushed for going, said it was a comedy. But he hadn’t asked a single question—or he’d have known it was going to be about cops and city crime.
    â€œGo back in,” she repeated, and motioned him with her hand, sounding aggravated now.
    He came closer instead. In a split second—faster than a second—he realized he’d fallen so deep and so hard in love with her that he couldn’t think straight.
    Of course he’d realized he was increasingly miserable around her—but not that he was hooked this hard. It was the look of her. That stupid, butchered, choppedoff hair—but damn, it framed her face pixie-fashion, made her soft brown eyes look huge. Right now those eyes held an ocean of pain and her skin was whiter than chalk. Her hands were clenched in a clear effort to control their shaking, and her frail shoulders were hunched, making her look more fragile, more beaten—and it killed him. Frustrated him. Enraged him. Too see his Camille this over her head, this whipped by anything.
    â€œYou’re having an anxiety attack.”
    â€œYup. If you’ve never seen one before, don’t get your liver in an uproar. I do this a few times a week. Just to keep in practice. It’ll pass in a minute.”
    Her effort to treat it lightly made him sick. He hunkered down on the cement stoop next to her. “This one was brought on by the movie?”
    â€œWho knows. Anything can set one off. I hear a strange sound—even if it’d be an innocuous sound to anybody else—and shazam , just like that, I’m suddenly sweating and acting like a complete idiot. It’s really annoying. Would you just go back inside? Please. It’s embarrassing enough to be such a wuss without having someone else see it. And it’ll pass. In fact, it’ll pass faster if you leave me alone. Other people can’t help. It just takes me a few minutes of concentration to pull myself together.”
    He wanted to pull her in his arms so bad he could taste it, but some internal instinct stopped him. He’d pulled her into his arms before. It hadn’t brought them closer together; it seemed to make her even warier. Camille treated concern as if it were a poison she could choke on. Still, he wanted—needed—to understand more of what she was dealing with. “The movie. I didn’t realize. I thought it was just a