I squeeze my coffee cup as I consider what I want to say. I think Brandon can sense I’m working up the courage to say something important because he waits patiently, pretending to be absorbed in the task of mixing cream and sugar into his drink.
“Does your assistant have to do that?”
He looks up, then back down at his mug as he picks it up. “What? Make my coffee?” His lips quiver in amusement. “Yeah. That and my dry cleaning.”
“You’re not serious.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m not being serious.” He smirks at me over the rim of his mug as he takes a sip. I can see the relief on his face when the caffeine touches his tongue. I take a sip of my own coffee in response. “But I wouldn’t turn down a cup of coffee if they offered to make me one, either.”
“But you don’t make them run around town doing goodness knows what all day long?”
From what I know, Brandon runs a tight ship. He’s a perfectionist. I’ve seen him wield a label maker, and he likes to clean when he’s drunk. I’ve seen it. One time, I emptied his dishwasher for him, and he ended up rearranging everything I put away because he’s an ungrateful toad.
“Rarely.”
“Hmm.” I walk around the front desk, casually glancing over what would be my workstation. It’s nice. Spacious. I’ve never worked at a desk before.
Brandon creeps up behind me as I survey my surroundings. He leans against the edge of the counter as I run my finger across the top of the computer monitor, then casually rifle through some forms resting in a metal organizer. I lower myself into the swivel chair and spin around once. Lifting my feet offthe ground, I lean into the spin for more momentum, grinning despite the dull ache throbbing in my lower back.
Brandon grabs the back of the chair, bringing my joy ride to an abrupt halt. “Evie.” He’s barely containing his laughter. “What are you doing?” When I don’t reply, his head tilts. “Are you reconsidering my offer?”
“Nope.” My thumb taps the side of my coffee cup as I peer around him. “I’m just feeling nosy. Can I see your office?”
He steps aside. “Be my guest.”
I get a little rush of excitement as I take off down the hall. I’m still sore all over, but I make it a point not to limp like I’m in pain because Brandon is like a dog with a bone. He’d end up lecturing me about how I’m working too much, and how I need to learn to take breaks, blah, blah, blah.
I would never tell anyone this, least of all Brandon, but I’m nervous about how my first day back at work is going to go. I told Adam that I wanted to take it easy, requesting he schedule me for more runaround jobs, like driving clients to and from doctors appointments, grocery shopping, companion visits—things like that. He said he would do what he could, which didn’t fill me with a whole lot of confidence.
“It’s the last office on the left,” Brandon says from behind me.
Pushing the door aside, I behold his modestly furnished office with a puzzled expression. This isn’t what I was expecting. Brandon’s home library has in-built floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an oak executive desk, and a leather chair that faces a set of French doors leading out into his lush, manicured backyard. He makes good money as a psychiatrist, and he likes his creature comforts. He has spared no expense making his home the lavish bachelor pad that it is.
But his work space? There are no windows, first of all. His desk, bookshelves, and filing cabinets are metal, and there’s no leather or wood to speak of—just an uninviting fabric love seat that looks two decades too old to be comfortable. Next to the couch is a coffee table adorned with a fidget spinner, Rubik’s Cube, a box of tissues, and a bowl of miscellaneous candies.
But then I turn around.
Behind the door, in the back corner of the cramped space, is a bookshelf filled with children’s books, toys, and dozens upon dozens of little plastic figurines—nodoubt used for play therapy with his younger patients. Brandon might be a child and adolescent psychiatrist, but I know from stalking his website that he’s trained in various modes of psychotherapy, too, like cognitive behavioral therapy. While evaluating, diagnosing, and managing a range of illnesses is his primary focus, Dr. Brandon Timothy Wright understands that medication may not be the answer for everyone, and he is pleased to offer a range of other treatment options . . . according to the stiff, professional language of his website profile.
Intrigued, I walk over and pick up a doll with dark hair. She fits perfectly into the palm of my hand and, coincidentally, looks a lot like me. She’s gaping into a mirror, recoiling from the image as though she finds her reflection horrifying.
Brandon leans against the door frame as he sips on his coffee. “Not what you were expecting?”
I put the figurine back before he can read into why I’ve picked it up.
“Not really,” I admit as I walk over to his desk and sit down in his chair. It’s stiffer than a board, and I wiggle around in it, communicating my discomfort.
He chuckles. “This is a placeholder. Gladys and I are planning to build an office space outside of town in a few years.”
“Is Gladys your business partner?”
He nods. “Her office is across the hall. She should be here any m—” I hear a door open and some plastic bags rustling. Brandon glances over his shoulder. “Morning, Gladys.”
“Hello, honey,” comes a warm, musical voice, and I rise, anxious to make a good first impression.
Why? I don’t want to work here.
A petite, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length auburn hair pauses in the doorway to see what Brandon’s looking at. My first impression of Gladys is that she is whimsy and grace personified. She’s wearing a flowing bright teal poncho over a pair of crisp white slacks, brown leather boots, and an array of glittering gold jewelry on her wrists. Her earrings are feathers.
