Annoyed, I snap my mouth shut before pursing my lips. His amused eyes track my every movement for exactly five seconds before I’ve had enough. “You know what, I don’t know why I came here.”
“You came here looking for help.”
“Yes. And apparently from the world’s rudest therapist.” Standing, I look him straight in the eye and brush excess glitter from today’s art project from my skirt, the asbestos of the crafting world.Serves him right. He’ll be finding it for years to come.
The doctor’s chair groans as the man stands, possibly to throw himself down at my mercy for unleashing glitter upon his office. “Could you please?—”
“Thank you very much for your time, Dr. Rhodes. I’ll see myself out.” Scooping up my bag, I try to exude any amount of confidence I can and scurry out the door.
“If you could please just wait?—”
I don’t stop for anything. Especially not the strong hand that brushes mine, sending shockwaves through my nervous system as I pass its handsome owner on the way out.
4
Oliver
“Wait, please,” I try again, reaching for her.
But the woman is past me and out my office door before I can grab hold of her slender arm. Glitter falls from her skirt with every sway of her hips, leaving an iridescent trail in her wake. The smell of chocolate persists in my office, threatening to mingle with the cinnamon apple scent I carefully selected years ago.
Not altogether unpleasant.
Following her hurried path down the hall toward the reception area, I call after her again. “Ms., um … ” Dammit. Why can’t I remember her name? Oh, maybe it’s because I still feel a little shanghaied from John’s prank. A frustrated sigh rips through the air as the front door slams shut behind her.
“Dr. Rhodes, I thought we were starting at 4pm sharp.” The nervous mother from a particularly draining case calls from her place on the reception couch.
“I know, Shira,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Why don’t you all go ahead and head on back? I’ll just be another minute.” Doing my best to remain as calm as possible, I give her a reassuring smile as she gathers her family.
Shira Collins and her two surly teenage sons make their way to my office as I turn to stare at the front door.
The one elusive redheads run away through.
“Everything alright, Dr. Rhodes?” Mrs. Lanahan smirks up from her post at the front desk. The bright lipstick and blue eyeshadow only enhances the menacing quality of the nosy woman.
Furrowing my brow, I glance back toward the door, willing the redhead to walk back through. “Did you happen to catch that woman’s name? The one who just ran out?”
Suspicious eyes flit to the door, then back to me. “Sorry, she never gave one.”
“But—”
“Don’t forget about the Collins’, Dr. Rhodes.” The shrewd woman sends me a knowing look, reminding me of the impending headache waiting in my office.
Pressing my lips together, I nod once. “Right.” Sighing, I run a hand across the stubble along my jaw. That’s what I get for taking Nacho on an evening hike—the inability to wake up on time and make myself look presentable. “If she comes back, will you send her straight to my office? Please?”
Mrs. Lanahan peers over the desk and nods.
Turning on my heel, I’m nearly halfway back to my office where my most unpleasant appointment of the day awaits, when John opens the door to his own hideout, letting a young couple with a girl who can’t be more than four out into the hall.
“Hey, man,” he says, almost running into me completely. “Sorry about that. You okay?”
Seeing the reason for all of this nonsense causes my heart to race. “Do you have a moment?” I grit out.
Mouth settling into a deep frown, he casts a glance up ahead to the young family. “Just a sec. Wait in here,” he nods to his office.
Rolling my eyes, I retreat into the light space. Not much bigger than mine, John’s session space feels much larger thanks to the bright color palette. Pictures of sailboats line the walls, even though the man has never once set foot on any kind of watercraft. A sand play station with multiple levels and toy options rests in the corner right beside a yellow, oversized armchair and matching sofa. Crayons lay strewn about the small dark coffee table, clearly having just been used by the little girl. On the far wall, his whitewashed desk sits pushed into the corner, not a pencil out of place as the scent of clean linen lingers in the air.
I guess he’s putting the joke gift basket of air fresheners I got him to good use.
