Page 9 of Touch of Class

“Well …” She shifted slightly from one foot to the other. “First of all, you haven’t known me for two decades and even then, I’m not sure we ever really knew each other. Second, you challenged my professionalism with your little quip about remaining nonjudgmental, so I suppose I schooled my reaction accordingly.”

“Ever the competitor. You’re crushing the whole neutrality thing,” Daphne muttered. “Shall I release you somehow, so you can speak freely?”

Gillian glanced heavenward for a second as if considering the offer or maybe praying for guidance, but when she met Daphne’s eyes again, there was nothing and no one between them. “Daphne, I never let myself be held to any constraint without my consent. I’ve made a deliberate choice over the years to meet people where they are, or at least I strive to. Life and work have afforded me plenty of opportunity to practice, and now you’re here with a … what did you call it … a ‘snuggery’?”

The word twisted Gillian’s mouth slightly, and something cold coiled in Daphne’s chest. “Yes.”

“That’s your reality, and now it’s part of mine. I’m choosing to accept those facts and allowing each of us the space to make our own meaning, unless you’d like me to help facilitate the process for you.”

“I am perfectly clear about what meaning I make about my own life.” Daphne tried not to let the flicker of doubt that crossed Gillian’s features shake her own confidence.

Gillian nodded again, this time with more finality. “Good.”

“Good,” Daphne echoed, then internally kicked herself for the lack of eloquence before adding, “I guess we’ll both keep meeting each other right where we are.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” Gillian sighed and turned to go, stopping only briefly in the doorway to say, “And for what it’s worth, next time we meet, I’d like to remain upright.”

She snorted softly. “I make no promises.”

Gillian shook her head. “And we’re back on-brand.”

Gillian closed the waiting room door behind her, and then for good measure she walked straight to her own office and closed that door, too. The more barriers between her and the madness she’d just left, the better.

Daphne Milner.

Of all the chaotic coincidences in the world. She didn’t know what was worse, the woman or her plan. Was there even any way to separate the two? Probably not, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.

Gillian didn’t want any reason to fixate on the woman with her soft curves and edge of absurdity. After that absolute cluster of a reintroduction, she’d wanted almost desperately to get back on level footing, and she almost had. She’d made good, levelheaded points about her work and the boundary-setting it required, and Daphne had even seemed receptive at first, but of course she had to get her little digs in. God, even as a teenager she could needle almost effortlessly, even when she didn’t have any reason to. Daphne just carried this air of mocking right below the surface, like nothing rose to the level of seriousness Gillian thought it should.

Except today it had. For a few moments something seemed to matter to Daphne, and it had damn near captivated Gillian to see the change come over her.

She sat down at her desk and tried to cling to the memory of Daphne describing the fervor with which she loved her job. She’d been mesmerizing, steady, self-assured, awash with conviction. There’d been something real to grasp for, and an authentic connection that could’ve served as the catalyst for meaningful change, and Gillian had genuinely tried to tether herself to it. Professionalism served as an anchor, a steady place to stand, but then Daphne had challenged hers.

The hair on the back of her neck tingled as she remembered the hint of challenge rising in her. At the time, she’d been offended, but now she felt almost grateful for the shot across her bow, as it was probably the only reason she managed not to laugh or lash out when the bomb had dropped.

Leaning back in her chair, Gillian let herself soak in at least the sense of superiority at having won that particular battle. She hadn’t even flinched when Daphne’d said the words “professional cuddler” or “snuggery,” which felt like a rather sizable accomplishment in retrospect. She’d spent years sitting comfortably with people’s most personal, vulnerable, and shameful disclosures, but she still took pride in knowing her skills held up when the revelations dipped into the farcical.

Or at least she would’ve felt gratified if that farce she’d held steady for wasn’t about to infiltrate her life in almost infuriating ways.

“Cuddling,” she grumbled aloud as the reality landed again. “What the hell?”

She unlocked the bottom drawer of her old metal desk and pulled out her iPad. Firing up the web browser, she navigated to the search bar and typed, “Is cuddling a job?”

An overview paragraph popped up immediately stating, “Yes, cuddling can be a job. Known as professional cuddling, these services offer platonic touch and comfort to clients, maintaining boundaries to keep the session nonsexual and therapeutic. For more details see ‘Cuddling Therapy.’”

“Absolutely not.” She snapped the cover of her tablet closed. Cuddling therapy? There was no way she would keep a neutral and open stance on this one. She had a master’s degree in Marriage and Family therapy, not to mention the hours of credentialing, supervision, and continuing education. She would under no circumstances denigrate her field by putting the words “cuddle” and “therapy” together in a Google search, her personal lexicon, or anywhere else.

The very idea set her teeth on edge, and she glanced at the clock to confirm she still had a solid twenty minutes to indulge her indignation before having to face clients. She grabbed her phone and texted Brooke. “You up?”

She waited, quietly stewing and trying not to notice the smell of Daphne still clung to her blouse, a mix of mocha and clean laundry.

Brooke’s reply buzzed. “We are awake, not sure I’d go all the way to up.”

We. Gillian shook her head, trying not to picture her best friend in bed with Tegan. Cuddling, no doubt. At least neither of them had exchanged money for the honor … not that they hadn’t paid in other ways.

The phone vibrated again. “Everything okay?”

She dodged the question. “You coming into the office today?”