Page 66 of Dreamscape Therapies

"You sound tired." There's immediate concern in his voice, and I want to wrap myself in it like a blanket.

"My bar decided to become an indoor swimming pool. I'm going to have to cancel today."

"Come again?"

"Pipe burst. There’s water everywhere. I'm dealing with contractors and insurance and probably a small mental breakdown later. I can't make the appointment."

"Oh." He sounds genuinely disappointed, and it does stupid things to my heart. "That's okay, Jagiya. We can reschedule."

"I know, but I really wanted to see you."

The words come out before I can stop them, too honest and too raw. There's a pause on the other end of the line, and for a second I wonder if I've said too much.

Then, quietly, he says, "I have a full schedule, but I could move you to after hours. If you want."

"You'd do that?"

"Of course." His voice drops lower, almost shy. "I was looking forward to seeing you too."

The low rumble that escapes my chest is completely involuntary. Possessive, satisfied, and far too revealing.

"How does seven-thirty sound?"

"Sounds like I'm bringing dinner."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know."

The silence that follows is heavy with everything we're not saying and everything we're both thinking about.

"I'll see you tonight, Jay."

"Yeah. Tonight." He clears his throat. "Bye, Jagiya."

"Bye."

I hang up before I say something stupid, although the rest of the day gives me plenty of opportunities to think about it anyway.

The hours disappear into a blur of invoices, soggy drywall, insurance adjusters who look like they're searching for any reason not to cover the water damage, and approximately two hundred phone calls. Industrial fans roar loudly enough to drown out rational thought, and with both doors propped open all day, I'm pretty sure half the desert has blown through my bar. We're not opening tonight, and probably not tomorrow either, if I'm being realistic.

By the time I finally lock up, I'm exhausted down to my bones. I lean against the back door for a moment and close my eyes, trying to convince myself that the day is actually over.

Mia is waiting by her car, purse slung over her shoulder. "You good?"

"Yup."

"Need anything?"

"Nope."

"Riveting conversation, boss." She waves and drives off before I can come up with anything better.

I stand there for another second before heading for my car. On the way to Jay's, I stop at an Italian restaurant and pick up two orders of baked lasagna, garlic bread, and tiramisu. Comfort food. The kind that says I've had a terrible day without actually having to say it.

Then I stop at the liquor store for wine, because apparently I'm doing this now. I spend ten minutes staring helplessly at bottles until a sommelier takes pity on me and recommends an expensive red that will "pair beautifully with an Italian meal." I buy it, mostly because I don't have the energy to argue about the price, but also because I can't stop thinking about the look on Jay's face when he opens the door and sees me standing there with dinner.

This is fine. Totally normal. People bring wine to therapy all the time, right?