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It felt good to not have to put up with her cruelty anymore, at least for the moment, but the amusement I felt at seeing her storm out of the lobby was short-lived. I was still stuck with the fact that I was alone, and she was marrying my ex— and that sucked.
After ridding me of my tormentors, I was more surprised than I should have been that my rescuer made the completely reasonable request of knowing my full name. When he also asked for my number, I thought that seemed a bit forward, but he had willingly gone along with the charade I’d thrown him into, so I couldn’t really complain.
I owed him at least as much as he was asking for.
Plus, who was I kidding?
He was hot as fuck.
Of course I wanted to give him my number.
The wetness in my panties and the tingle down my back told me that I would have given him a hell of a lot more under different circumstances.
“Okay, sure,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, despite the delightful trembling his handsome face caused to appear there.
I got out the pad I carried by force of the habit formed back when I was still writing regularly and jotted down my full name and cell number. I gave him the pad and pen, and he wrote out his own information.
“Gavin MacBride. Your surname sounds Scottish.”
“It’s kind of both. There’s a lot of overlap, especially way back. Technically the Scots started out as a displaced Irish tribe. The MacBride family are kinfolk of the MacDonald clan from Scotland. Mac is old scot. Mc is Scots Irish. It’s why the British sometimes call us ‘micks.’”
“Oh,” I said, feeling like an idiot.
There was so much I didn’t know about other cultures, but I sure was willing to learn about his. Or anything about him at all.
He nudged my arm.
“We should go to their engagement party together.”
I snorted out a laugh.
“As if.”
“Why not?”
I laughed, surprised that he was serious. It sounded like a crazy idea, but clearly, I was a crazy person, as evidenced by the fact that I was about to go in to see a therapist.
“I say let’s give it a bash,” he pushed. “It could be a laugh. Will there be free food and free beer?”
“Of course.”
The corners of his lips lifted into a huge grin, and his eyes twinkled.
“Then we should definitely go.”
Tingles raced up and down my back.
“Well, that’s settled then,” I said with a giggle.
“Maggie Sanders,” called out the receptionist. “Dr. Benoit is ready for you now.”
I took a deep breath. I had made the appointment, so I decided I should still go, but I wasn’t feeling as depressed as I had been.
“Well, gotta go,” I told Gavin. “It was nice meeting you. Thanks so much again. You went above and beyond the call of duty.”
“The pleasure was all mine, darlin’,” he said, smiling that cute grin of his. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Can’t wait,” I said, then immediately felt like an idiot all over again. “I mean, good, because we really should make them jealous as fuck at that engagement party, right?”
I hoped my recovery had been good enough. I knew it was obvious how into him I was, but I hadn’t meant to be that forward.
“For sure,” he said, waving at me as I walked off.
It almost felt like a maze, to find the right office as I walked down the long, twisting hallway, but I finally did.
“Bonjour, Maggie,” Dr. Benoit said, opening the door to her office once I knocked.
“Dr. Benoit, it’s nice to meet you.”
I had expected a couch, but that was just one of the stereotypes of therapists that Dr. Benoit was apparently rebelling against. As well as the notion that they were old, bearded Austrio-German men in ancient tweeds.
Dr. Benoit was young, with a French accent and the clearest, smoothest skin I had ever seen. And she dressed in chic fashion labels and didn’t wear a bra.
I wasn’t particularly looking but couldn’t help but notice. It was rather obvious. But I did my best to avert my eyes.
We sat down together on her lovely leather couch, and she crossed her legs, her notebook open on her lap.
“I’ve read over your pre-appointment questionnaire and looked over your medical history. There’s no history of depression or mental health issues previously, so tell me what brought you here today,” Dr. Benoit said.
Her tone of voice was caring but also no-nonsense.
“Everything, I guess. I mean, I don’t seem to be getting any real joy out of anything. There’s no real joy in my life. I can’t write like I used to. Even walking in the woods only has a mild effect. It used to make me so happy. But ever since my stepsister and ex-boyfriend hooked up, nothing works to cheer me up. I took a special trip up to Oregon to see if I could shake off the funk, but all I got was a lousy T-shirt.”
