Seduced by the Screenwriter

Chapter 9, Ruff Day, Part 9

MATURE CONTENT

Chapter 9

Ruff Day

"Cat, you're hyperventilating. Take deep, slow breaths." Chett dragged Catrina's limp body over to the upholstered bench and propped her against it, her long legs splayed out in front.

He recognized a panic attack from his own experience. He crouched beside her, took a few deep breaths of his own, and ordered his mind to produce options.

Call 9-1-1.

But his phone was downstairs on the kitchen counter, and he refused to leave Cat alone while she struggled for air. He had to increase the level of carbon dioxide in her blood, and fast, before her brain starved of oxygen and she lost consciousness.

He reached for the discarded plastic bag on the bench. It wasn't a paper bag, but it would have to do. He rolled down the top handles, compressed the round opening in a fist, and blew into the bag, inflating it. He then quickly placed the top over her nose and mouth. "Breath out, then in."

To his relief, she obeyed. Even in the throes of panic she must've recalled her first aid training. He inflated the bag with a long exhale, and demanded, "Again. Out, in, out."

Five minutes later her lungs filled and emptied in a normal rhythm. He relaxed, slumped from his knees to sit on the floor beside her, and pulled her head onto his chest.

"I would have preferred mouth-to-mouth," she mumbled against his T-shirt.

Still shaken, no, make that scared for her, he forced a chuckle. If she could joke, she must be okay. He tipped her chin up and dropped a light kiss on cool lips. "You had me worried."

"Titan!" She pressed a palm on his chest to lever herself upright.

"You're not going anywhere," he growled, covering her hand with his. "You need recovery time. Food. Something to drink."

She ignored him, sat up, then stood. "I have to bring him inside. The temperature's dropping." She pressed a hand to one temple and swayed alarmingly. "The goddamn closet is spinning."

He scrambled to his feet and stabilized her shivering shoulders. "You're in no condition to go outside." He swallowed. Manned up. "I'll do it."

With one arm wrapped around her narrow waist, he supported her down the staircase to the Great Room, where he tucked her under a blanket on the sofa. The fireplace logs had burned to embers, so he stacked two in the grate. "Don't move," he ordered before heading into the kitchen.

His mother had always given him a glass of milk and chocolate chip cookies to settle him after a dog fright. The fridge held nothing non-alcoholic to drink except orange juice, so he emptied the carton into a large tumbler. He opened the food pantry doors, saw only cans of soup and the box of cereal he'd purchased on a grocery run, and shrugged. At least the freezer was full of frozen meat, fish, and vegetables. He'd cook her a proper dinner. Then he remembered the bag of oatmeal raisin cookies that Catrina's friend had dropped off earlier that afternoon. He arranged half a dozen on a plate.

"Brigit gave me these cookies. A welcome to Muskoka, she said." He set the juice and cookies on the coffee table.

"Yeah, she wants to welcome you, alright." Catrina frowned. "She stay long?"

"No, I had work to do."

Catrina relaxed into the sofa cushion, tumbler in hand. "Titan," she reminded him with one-track-mind firmness that hinted at recovering strength. "The keys to my SUV are in my parka pocket."