Free The Pretend Fiancé by Lucy Lambert

opened again, a wave of conversations slammed into her, overwhelming her. It was loud. Not at all like they day they’d arrived.
    She couldn't be there, not with all those people around.
    A little boy yammering to his mother in what Gwen thought was German nearly ran into her leg. And as soon as she dodged him, she had to execute what must have been a pretty impressive dance maneuver to dodge a luggage-laden handcart.
    The blood rushed passed her ears. Her skin heated so that even the chilly air conditioning felt uncomfortable. That wall of sound around her closed in.
    All too late, Gwen realized that this was the beginning of a panic attack.
    "Excuse me! Sorry. Oh, I didn't mean to..." she said, shooting hasty apologies to the people she nudged out of the way. Said people started to stare. A few of them asked if she was all right (at least, she assumed they were. Most of them didn't speak English).
    Her vision started to tunnel, everything turning black but for the little circle in the middle. Like at the start of a James Bond movie but without the sexiness and the $12 ticket crinkling in your pocket.
    She focused it all on the set of revolving doors at the end of the lobby. Even the cavernous walls of the lobby closed in on her, triggering a claustrophobic reaction that only deepened the panic.
    Air, I need air. Fresh, mountain air , she kept thinking.
    She nearly collided with the edge of the revolving door, but managed to grab on and use it to hold herself up. She followed it out, the claustrophobia growing momentarily worse when the doors in front of and behind her brushed against the wall to form a tiny, triangular room.
    And then she was outside. The triumph was short-lived however, as she forgot about the set of concrete stairs leading up to the door and stumbled.
    "Hey! Whoa, be careful!"
    A pair of hands snagged her shoulders and saved her from painful fall.
    "Sorry. Thanks," Gwen said. This time she grabbed the handrail.
    Being outside did help. There were no oppressive walls to press in on her. She could feel the space around her.
    "Hey, are you all right?"
    "No. Yes, I mean," Gwen said, not wanting to invite further questions.
    The owner of the voice, and also the set of hands that saved her, turned out to be a black-haired women in a skirt suit. And a pretty one, too. The woman, not the suit (although Gwen found it pretty stylish). The hair fell in glossy waves to her shoulders, and framed a pretty face with high cheekbones and a set of soft brown eyes. If Gwen had to guess, she figured the woman was only slightly older than she was.
    It was the type of hair, the type of beauty, Gwen might have been jealous of, had her mind not been otherwise occupied.
    And maybe it was the suit, but she had this air of confidence about her. Of certainty and direction. But she also had an easy smile that smoothed some of that out, and Gwen couldn't help but take an instant liking of her.
    "I know it's none of my business," the woman said, "But are you sure? You look a little, I don't know, shaken up about something."
    They both stepped aside to let a couple of camera-toting tourists up the stairs. Gwen still clung to the rail as though letting go would be the death of her.
    Gwen could only imagine how she looked. Pale. Shaken. Completely underdressed.
    "Something. Someone," Gwen said, letting the death grip she had on the contract lighten enough to allow circulation to her fingers again.
    The woman nodded, glanced back at the hotel, then down at an expensive, if fashionable, watch. "Okay," she said.
    "Okay, what?"
    The woman put a hand on Gwen's shoulder and led her down the stairs. From there, she took Gwen just down the street to a quaint-looking cafe with a half dozen bistro tables and twice as many chairs set up out in front of it. Only one other table was occupied, and that by an old, white-mustached man staring down into his tiny porcelain espresso mug.
    A bow tie wearing waiter came up and spoke to her in French. She