Then Sloane says, “Don’t make this personal, Cole.”
I look toward the closed bedroom door I can’t see from here but feel anyway.
“Trying not to,” I say.
Sloane exhales. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
The call ends, and I remain on the landing with the ocean moving behind the dunes and Kara’s private voice sealed away inside the cottage.
I tell myself the closed door is fine. I tell myself privacy is healthy. The therapist is probably exactly what she needs.
Then I look toward the road, the beach path, the rental houses, every place a threat could hide in plain sight, and accept the simpler truth.
I don’t like being outside any door that separates me from Kara Stone. Not anymore.
Chapter 9
Kara
By the time I end the video call with Dr. Vale, I feel like someone has taken a small spoon and scraped around the inside of my chest in a careful, but not cruel way. I sit on the edge of the bed for a minute with my laptop closed beside me and the ocean murmuring beyond the walls. Therapy is strange that way. Nothing physical happens. No one lays a hand on you. No one raises their voice. Yet somehow, forty minutes of calm questions can leave a person feeling like she has run miles barefoot over broken shells.
Dr. Vale looked exactly the same as he did the last time I saw him. Silver at the temples. Blue shirt. Thoughtful eyes. Gentle voice that gives nothing away unless he wants it to. He did not make me feel foolish for calling. He did not say anxiety like it was a flaw. He did not tell me to be brave.
He asked what happened and what I felt. Then, in the most unfair therapist trick of all time, he waited until I answered honestly. I rub both hands over my face and let out a slow breath.
My professional homework, apparently, is not to hide inside The Sandpiper all day memorizing every sound the cottage makes. Avoidance, Dr. Vale reminded me, can feel like safety while slowly shrinking the world. I hate how reasonable that sounds. A soft knock comes at the bedroom door.
“Kara?” Cole’s voice comes through the wood. “You okay?”
The answer is complicated.
“Yes,” I say, then stand because saying it while sitting on the edge of the bed feels like a lie. “I’m done.”
I open the door and find him in the hall, tall and broad, almost taking up too much space. He has changed into a dark gray shirt and cargo pants, his hair slightly damp like he splashed water on his face or took the fastest shower known to mankind. He smells faintly of soap and clean male skin.
His gaze moves over my face once, not intrusive, just assessing. “Rough call?”
“Productive,” I say.
“That sounds like yes.”
“It is therapist code for emotional excavation.”
His mouth almost curves. “Noted.”
I step into the hall and close the bedroom door behind me. For some reason, I feel guilty about having shut him out, even though I needed the privacy and he respected it. That’s another thing Dr. Vale and I briefly discussed. Boundaries. How fear makes them feel selfish when they are actually necessary.
“I’m sorry if that was awkward,” I say.
“Privacy isn’t awkward.”
“Standing outside while your temporary client talks to a therapist probably isn’t in the brochure.”
“There’s no brochure.”
“There should be. ‘Congratulations, you’ve been assigned a celebrity chef with a missing knife and anxiety homework.’”
His eyes warm slightly. “Could use a better title.”
