Her face lights up. “Oh! Please tell me you found us a new assistant. Hi, honey. I’m Gladys.”
Brandon takes the bags she thrusts at him, and he disappears into her office. Gladys strides purposefully toward me, and I respond in kind, rounding Brandon’s desk to take her outstretched hands. Holding my hands out to our sides, she gives me an approving once-over.
“Well, aren’t you a doll? Actually, you remind me of one of those diva dolls my girls used to play with. Big eyes, big lips, lots of makeup.” She pauses to make a cringe face. “I’m sorry. I meant that as a compliment, of course.”
My mouth pops open. “You have no idea how flattered I am.”
She snickers. “Listen, Brandon can be a stickler about some things, but not me. If you’re good to my patients, then I’ll be good to you.”
I laugh and glance at Brandon as he reappears in the doorway. “Actually—”
Brandon’s phone rings, cutting me off.
“Oh! I won’t keep you.” Gladys winks before scurrying out of the room. She taps Brandon’s hand as she passes him.
I smile as she closes her office door. “She’s nice.”
“A handful sometimes, but nice,” he says, walking toward his desk. He stares down at me as he picks up his phone. “Wright and West Psychiatry. Brandon speaking.”
What a way to answer a phone. All business. No party.
Feeling shy under his gaze, I swivel away from him, taking the opportunity to snoop around his work space. Again, he’s all business and no party. There aren’t many personal knickknacks on his desk—just a few framed photographs and a mug of pens. Some sticky notes. My stomach drops when I spot the photo of me, him, Jamie, and Teddy in the hospital. The same one I have on my bedside table.
Emotional now, I scan over all the other photos. I’m shocked to see one is from a trip that the Montgomerys, Smarts, and Wrights took to Disneyland together when I was a kid. This picture is of “just the kids,” although Jamie, Brandon, and Dana were all adults by that point. We’re all wearing Mickey Mouse ears and holding up pretzels. I’m clinging to Brandon’s side, smiling wide enough that you can see the gap I used to have in my two front teeth. Adam is next to me, clinging to me as I cling to Brandon.
I avert my gaze, hating the reminder of our age gap.
There’s a calendar hanging on the wall behind his computer, packed with appointments. But there are no appointments or other obligations occupying his weekends. Jealousy twists my gut.
I wish I had weekends to look forward to.
“Evie?”
I start. “Huh?”
Brandon’s perched on the edge of his desk, gazing down at me. Blushing, I look away. My body tenses when I hear him rise. The clock hanging above his door tells me I should have left about five minutes ago, but . . . here I am.
I jump when his hands find my shoulders, and he begins rubbing soothing, absentminded circles into the hard, tight muscles between my shoulder blades—acting as if his casual touch is completely commonplace. “Why are you here, Spitfire?” he wonders as he massages my shoulders. His hands are warm and confident as they manipulate my body. My shoulders wobble under the firm pressure of his touch.
It’s time to face the music.
“I came to apologize,” I whisper, holding my breath as I wait for his response.
“Oh?” He sounds amused. “I’m listening.”
Except I’ve lost my train of thought. His hands have moved to my neck, so now we’re flesh to flesh as he kneads my muscles like dough. I’m already thawing. I have to resist the urge to close my eyes and lean into his touch. Is this what it would be like to work for him? We’d drink our coffee together, and he’d let me sit at his desk while he gives me a shoulder massage?
The idea doesn’t seem so bad all of a sudden. It seems rather nice actually, considering my back is killing me, and I’d rather not move from this spot for the next week. I would be able to sit at a desk if I worked for him. I wouldn’t have to lift a finger . . . or apersonever again.
I’m ashamed of the relief I feel over the idea. I love my job. I do. I’m just . . . tired. So tired.
“I’m sorry for threatening to tell Jamie.” I stiffen when his thumb catches on a knot beneath my shoulder blade. He relaxes the pressure he’s exerting and slides his thumb over the bump slowly, attempting to release the tension. It takes a couple of tries, but it eventually starts to feel better. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Threatening to tell Jamie?”
“About . . . you know.” My cheeks burn. “Us.”
“Ah.”
