For Her Own Good Page 7

  And then he’d rush my side of the table to heft me up on the white-linen-covered surface before laying me out like I was his dinner, like I would be better sustenance than anything a chef’s tasting menu could offer.

  My disturbingly vivid erotic daydream is interrupted by what Lowry actually says: “That it was foolish for me to come back here. That I had a good life and a good career in Chicago and moving halfway across the country seemed impulsive and ill-advised.”

  I suppose someone could have said that about him moving to Chicago in the first place, but I won’t poke him with that. At the moment. “Those sound like pretty good reasons to stay put. Why did you come back?”

  There it is again, that look. That look that gives me sillier ideas than I’ve ever dared to have about him.

  “I…”

  The waitress chooses that extremely inconvenient moment to set down our salads in front of us. When she’s departed with our dinner orders and a request for a bottle of wine since both Lowry and I are nearly through with our cocktails, I search his face again. Is he going to—

  “And how’s your romantic life?”

  Apparently not.

  * * *

  Lowry

  Maeve was right. I’m a fool. And I swear I didn’t ask Starla to dinner as a date. I was genuinely curious about how she is and it’s my own goddamn fault I find her utterly captivating. She’s been beautiful the times I’ve seen her lately, but the way that skirt hugs her round bum and her lush thighs… Well, it’s a wonder I haven’t had to use my napkin to wipe away the drool. The sweater with the little ruffle at the waist shows off her slight hourglass shape and how bountiful her breasts are is icing on this lust-worthy cake.

  I’ve dug myself into a deep hole by letting her ask whatever she’d like, and by it taking a turn toward my love life, which I suppose is to be expected. I did after all volunteer that I’d been married and that usually leads to some questions. Now I’ve gone and turned the tables on her because I couldn’t tell her that I am here for her. Not that I had any intention of letting it get this far. At all. I could’ve been in the same city and if we’d happened to run into each other at Harbinson, then we would have. If she’d continued to give me a hard pass on spending time together, I would have respected that. Did.

  But I don’t think I can explain to her—or anyone else for that matter—why precisely I felt compelled to return here. All I know is that after I’d come here four months ago when her father had died, it felt right to return. To be in the city she loves, calls home, to be near her even if I didn’t see her, even if I never talked to her. I would be here if she did ever need me and that would be enough.

  It’s rather daft, I know, and I would urge a patient who came to me with this kind of—such an ugly word but I suppose it’s deserved—obsession to examine their motivations and try their best to get over it and move on. The inconvenient thing is that I thought I had and then all of my willpower, all of my good sense, crumbled when Jameson Patrick died.

  Starla blinks at my abrupt question. “My romantic life? Pretty much nonexistent. I date occasionally, but nothing’s been serious for years. It’s more trouble than it’s worth. Partners take up time and energy, and I know probably sooner rather than later they’re going to make me feel like shit, so why bother?”

  That’s rather harsh and my heart aches for her. Would I be happy if she were doe-eyed in love with some dashing fellow who fulfilled her every need? No, I’d be jealous as the day is long. But I’d also be happy for her. She deserves that.

  “And I swear to god if you say Not All Men, I’m going to kick your shin under the table.”

  Fair. Sure, not all men, but enough of them to have convinced her it’s not worth it. And I don’t relish being kicked. I bruise easily.

  “We don’t need to discuss those losers, then. Unless you want to?” A quick and decisive shake of her head tells me no in no uncertain terms and I’m relieved. I’d listen to Starla talk about her exes, but I’d rather not. Jealousy would no doubt rear its ugly head and that’s not a good look for friends. “How’s business, then? Lois has been singing your praises, so I know personally you have at least one superfan.”

  Unlike when I asked about her love life, Starla’s face lights up. “Lois is great. And she’s the kind of client I can really make a difference for. We’ve been focusing on the structure of her workday and how she can be more efficient while also giving herself breaks. And unlike a lot of my clients, she was quickly onboard with the idea that taking breaks could actually make her more productive. Sometimes I have to practically beg them to take a time out. Work smarter, not harder. But some of them are used to working so hard to make up for the things they’re not great at. They burn themselves out trying to run a marathon when they’re sprinters.”

  “You know, I’d never thought of it like that, but that makes all the sense in the world now that you put it that way. Take advantage of that hyperfocus and don’t let them bang their heads against a wall when their brains need to run wild for a bit. I can see why you’re good at this. And I don’t mean that to sound condescending, I’m sorry if it does.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  She shrugs, swallows the last of her cocktail, and her cheeks might pink a bit. Maybe it’s from the Fabiola, or maybe it’s because she values my opinion and it makes her happy to know I’ve a good one of her. Very good—I think she’s incredible.

  I rub the skin between my brows, trying to ameliorate the headache gathering there.

  “Do you ever work with people who don’t have mental health issues?”

  “Not really. I’ve had a few people sign on with me who didn’t have diagnoses when they started, but after I worked with them for a while, it became clear—to me anyway—that they did actually have something going on, but no one had ever identified it or addressed it. Especially women. We’re really good at compensating for shit, which can be great—part of my job is teaching people coping mechanisms and they’ve already got a lot of them—but it can also be a problem. I had one client who got a diagnosis of ADHD, started on meds, and it made a huge difference for her. What would her life have been like if she’d been diagnosed earlier? It’s so frustrating to see people whose potential is wasted.”

  “That’s a—”

  “Oh, no, I know that can be a huge trigger phrase for people. I mean that society as a whole is wasting all this brain power because it insists on everyone fitting into round holes. Well, a lot of my clients are squares. They’re fucking awesome at being squares and can accomplish so many incredible things, and just because they can’t fit into these round holes, people think they’re lazy. It’s infuriating. I love getting to talk to my clients’ coworkers or partners or bosses. Because I can hammer the point home in ways my clients aren’t always able to. But anyway, you were asking about whether I take on clients without mental health issues. Why, you need some help, doc?”

  I like the way she says “doc.” It’s teasing and familiar, not like when she called me Doctor Campbell. Not as good as if she called me Lowry, but I’ll take it.

  “I might. But I don’t want to take advantage of your professional acumen. It’s like asking your massage therapist friend if they could work out the knot you’ve got in your shoulder when you’re supposed to be meeting up to watch a match at the pub, or if your friend who’s an accountant could take a quick peek at your taxes during the previews at the movies. Kind of rotten to ask them to do their job for free.”

  “I heard you were paying for dinner.”

  Hell, that mischievous smile is going to get me into trouble. Makes my heart squeeze and something low in my belly get tight. Have to be careful though, because this isn’t a date. Friendly, yes, but the objective here is not to charm Starla Patrick back to my place for a nightcap and a good fuck—though that might exorcise some demons for the both of us. It’s to be a pleasant companion, and if I’m pleasant enough, perhaps we can be friends, and I won’t have to go another fifteen years cr
aving her company, wanting to know how she’s actually doing.

  “It’s a deal,” I offer.

  “So, what seems to be the trouble?”

  She takes a bite of her salad, but doesn’t take her eyes off me. Starla’s in professional mode now, a sharp cast to her features. I can almost feel her concentration alighting on me. I have all of her attention and it’s a heady sensation. I’d like to be at the center of her attention more often. Far, far more often. Probably more often than would be healthy for either of us.

  “Not so much a trouble, really—”

  She shakes her head, sending her high ponytail shaking behind her head. “Don’t do that. It’s bothering you enough to bring it up with me, so it’s obviously bothering you. And it’s okay to not be perfect. To need help. Doesn’t make you a bad person or a failure, or bad at your job.” She points her fork at me, a sly look in her eyes. “You taught me that. Listen to your own good advice.”

  Busted. “Aye, you’re right. Thing is, I’d like to be better at my job, and better at being, well, human.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?”

  “I think I mentioned I don’t get to the gym as much as I’d like. I did tonight, because I knew I was meeting you afterward. If I’m going home, I often just go home. Because I’m tired, it’s been a long day, and would it really be so bad to have a break?”

  She nods and chomps down on another forkful of kale. “You’re allowed to have a break. But it sounds like you’re frustrated by this, so maybe we can figure out an alternative. How do you feel in the afternoons? Like two to four or so? Do you feel like you’re at your best with your patients or do you feel like you’re dragging a bit?”

  She’s a witch. Or has cameras in my office.

  “How did you know that?”

  The waitress clears our now-empty salad plates and sets down our entrees. We both ordered the sole, and it looks delightful. Smells delicious too. I can’t wait to dig in. And I do as she answers my question.

  “You said it yourself, I’m good at my job.” She smirks, looking extraordinarily pleased with herself. So pleased. It’s goddamn adorable. “It’s a hard time during the day for a lot of people.”

  “Okay, so what do I do about it, Little Miss Expert?”

  Ugh, Campbell, if you’re trying not to be a condescending numpty, Little Miss followed by anything—even if it’s expert—probably isn’t the way to go. But Starla doesn’t look irritated. To the contrary, she looks smugly delighted. And tips her head in a way that… Och, I don’t know how to explain how changing the tilt of her head could make her look sweetly charming, but it has. Innocent but up to something, perhaps her coyness is hiding… No, definitely not. Knock those filthy thoughts right out of your head, Campbell.

  “If you have some flexibility with your schedule, I’d recommend you use that less-than-optimal-productivity time to go work out. A lot of people find that actually energizes them to finish out the rest of their days. You have a gym on-site at Harbinson, right? Or you could take a run around the neighborhood when the roads are finally clear. If you’d rather. I don’t know what you do when you’re at the gym.”

  She seems flustered, and I don’t know why. Whatever it is, she shoves another bite of green beans into her mouth.

  “Hmm. At present, everyone in the office keeps the same hours. Not sure I’d be able to find an admin who’d want to deal with that split schedule.”

  Starla shakes off whatever had ruffled her feathers and gets back to business. “You might be able to if someone wanted the same break that works for you. That’s pretty likely, actually. Or you might be able to find someone who wants to start a few hours later who could work straight through. Or you can keep doing what you’re doing if it’s too much of a trial to change. But I think it’d be worth it to try. At least make the effort to ask. You asked me to do a lot more back in the day. Whether I could actually make it happen or not, I always did try.”

  I know she did. Starla couldn’t always do what I asked of her. Sometimes it was too much and she literally couldn’t. The point of my asking wasn’t to make her fail, but so often to offer the chance to succeed. And I always made sure to praise her for whatever she had done. She was always so apologetic, but she needn’t have been.

  “I know. I asked you for the impossible sometimes and you delivered with alarming frequency. I see you’re as tenacious as ever. So, yes, I promise to at least investigate the possibility.”

  “Good. I expect you to report back next time.”

  She seems to realize what she’s said—her eyes get wide and she immediately studies her plate rather closely. It’s a good-looking piece of fish, but not worth that much of her attention.

  “I mean, whatever. You can call me. Or text. Texting’s good.”

  “Or we could have dinner again next week,” I offer, trying to take the most casual bite of sole meunière that’s ever been taken. Because I don’t have strong feelings about wanting to see Starla again. Nor has a thrill run up my spine at the idea that she’d like to see me again too. That would be wildly inappropriate and would certainly mean I should head my growing attachment off at the pass.

  But when she blinks those wide hazel eyes up at me, I know it’s hopeless. Now that I’ve made the offer there’s no way I’ll rescind it. And if she asks me for anything—anything at all—it’s hers. No question in my mind.

  “Yeah?”

  I nod, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest, no doubt from the tenterhooks I’m on, waiting for her to say yes. Despite the fact that it’s probably not a good idea. For either of us. At all. Too late. It is far too late. “Yeah. I’d…I’d like that, actually.”

  She looks down again, pokes her fork at her fish, dislodging another flake that she spears and raises before looking at me. “This isn’t some kind of pity date, is it? Since I told you how pathetic my love life is? Not that it would be a date. At all. Just…”

  “No, no pity here. You can pick up the check next time if it’ll make you feel better. It’s been nice, is all.”

  She nods, her head bobbing thoughtfully. “Fine. Then I’ll see you same time next week. Different place. You pick.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The fish tastes more buttery, the wine cleaner and crisper. I have another not-date with Starla Patrick.

  Chapter 6

  Lowry

  Every time I have a not-date with Starla, dread gathers around my heart as I wait for her at whatever restaurant I’ve picked. Surely this will be the time that she realizes what a pervy old man I am, what I really think about as I sit across the table from her.

  I fantasize about her. About what it would be like to go on a date with her, what it would be like to ask her to come home with me afterward. To strip her out of the pretty outfits she wears and see if the understated elegance but also, dare I say, cuteness persists to the layer of her underthings.

  She has this way of dressing that’s mostly what one might expect from a very wealthy young woman, with clothes I can only imagine cost more than my rent, but there’s always a detail that’s almost…childish. A bracelet with a charm, a pattern on her sweater that recalls Alice in Wonderland or Peter Pan, the shoes that are yes, heels, but also have rounded toes with buckles and sometimes she pairs them with lacy socks with a fold-over frill. Does it speak to my depravity that I notice these things?

  Things I have tried my best not to think at all ever for reasons that are ancient history yet still trouble my soul, but especially not within a hundred yards of Starla. It’s not right. No, it’s not right at all.

  Once again, though, she silences the fear in my heart by showing up on time, her hair in a high ponytail with these sweet wild strands curling around her face and droplets scattered over her crown. My heart cannot take these things; it cannot take her.

  But I can’t imagine not seeing her anymore. Perhaps it will always be a friendly dinner and I can live with that. Probably. Unless she keeps showing up looking as gorgeous as she does and t
hen my heart may give out. It’s hers to do with as she likes, anyhow. Doddering old infatuated man, that’s me. I’m glad Maeve isn’t here to see how besotted I am. I don’t think it would hurt her feelings because I didn’t feel that way about her, but I would get mocked. Mercilessly. Deservedly.

  I stand and greet Starla with a brief embrace, a brushed buss against her soft cheek. One of two times this evening I’ll allow myself the pleasure of touching her. She smells of rain, though it had only been cloudy on my way here.

  “Sorry, I’m soaking wet. I didn’t grab an umbrella on my way out and by the time I realized it was going to rain, I would’ve been late if I went back to get one. Don’t get yourself drenched. Ugh.”

  Despite her words, she doesn’t shy away from me but lingers and I take an extra breath of her. The sweet scent of her skin overlaid with the freshness of rain on asphalt. Intoxicating.

  I’m well aware as we sit that people are looking at us, likely trying to determine what our relationship is. Father and daughter? Lovers? I’m sure psychiatrist and ex-patient never crosses their minds, which is just as well. I’m getting some dirty looks as it is.

  We both sit, me smoothing my tie down my chest and her dropping into her chair with a sigh. She does look harried, which may be the wetness, but still, she needn’t look that way on my account. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “Next time you’ll get your umbrella. I don’t mind if you’re late if you arrive in one dry piece.”

  Her eyebrows go up and my collar feels tight. I’m going to brazen this one out, though, act as though it’s not at all odd that I’ve gone and given her instructions like she’s a schoolgirl. She’s not. She can tell me where to shove my umbrella if she feels like it, and I half wish that she will.

  A smile dances around her lips, though, and every curse word I ever learned pings around my head.