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The next few patients he sees are spread inconveniently all over the city—Holmby Hills to Bel Air to Pacific Palisades and down to Manhattan Beach. They aren’t exactly like Shannen, but share with her a complete lack of boundaries and self-respect: husbands yelling at their wives as if we aren’t there, rambunctious children screaming and throwing a football overhead while their mother has a needle pressed mere centimeters from her eye, patients making out with their boyfriends as if we aren’t even there.
At our final stop of the day, before I meet the patient...I meet her dogs. They come charging out of the house just as I climb from the car, so fast and so much larger than me on their hind feet that I’m thrown backward before I even have time to process what’s happened, my head smacking the window with an audible thwap.
And just as fast, Hayes is there, shielding me with his large frame like some kind of avenging angel. I blink up at him as he helps me right myself. We’ve never stood this close before, and I find myself staring at his eyes—at the tiny green flecks there. At his lovely mouth. At the crease where a dimple sometimes, rarely, appears.
“Are you okay?” he asks, jaw tight with concern. Probably just concern that I’m going to file an unsafe workplace complaint, but concern nonetheless.
I nod. It’s probably adrenaline that’s got me feeling warm and slightly light-headed.
He turns toward the patient. A muscle in his cheek flexes. “Genevieve, can you make sure they stay out of the room this time?” he asks. “I really don’t want to miss when I’m injecting you.”
“Oh, I try,” she says, “but they just want to be near their mama.”
Which sounds like no to me, and certainly seems like it when she leads us into the house, making no effort to keep the dogs from following. Hayes stays close to my side the entire way in, his hand on my back as if prepared to leap into action once more, and his jaw locked so tight I’m worried he’s about to break a molar.
When everything is ready, Hayes tips her chin upward. Just as he presses the needle to her right cheekbone, the largest of the dogs comes charging into the room toward the two of them. Panicking, I leap in his path, only to find myself knocked to the floor.
“You should have brought Jonathan,” Genevieve chides, as Hayes leans down to help me up. I thought I’d seen him angry before, but that was a pale imitation of what I’m seeing now. His eyes are dark as night, and more ominous.
“I’m not going to be able to do this unless you close the door,” Hayes says, his voice so clipped it’s barely civil.
“But I can’t,” Genevieve says. “They’re sad if they can’t see me.”
Hayes begins packing his things. “I’m not putting my assistant through this,” he says. “And it isn’t safe for you either.”
Hayes places a hand on my back as he marches us out of the house. I’m not sure if he’s angry with her, with me, with the dogs...or perhaps all three. But as he climbs in the driver’s seat, it’s obvious he’s very angry about something.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“I’m not mad at you,” he says, his teeth grinding. “I’m mad at myself. I should never have put you in that position. You’re half Jonathan’s size.”
It unsettles me, these small moments when he fails to be as awful as I thought he’d be. I force a laugh. “I’m dumbfounded you’re concerned about anyone’s discomfort but your own.”
His shoulders sag a little, and I feel like I just took a cheap shot. Before I can apologize, he shrugs. “It surprises me as well.”
We are silent most of the ride home. It’s only when I stiffen at the sight of Matt’s face stories above us that he seems to notice me again.
“Are you alright?” Hayes asks, glancing over at me.
“Yes,” I say, though I’m not sure it’s true. It’s not about missing Matt, or even regretting it’s over. It’s just that the sight of him reminds me that trusting anyone other than yourself is a bad idea—and I’m finding myself with this bizarre urge to trust Hayes, of all people.
* * *
When I finally collapse in bed that night, exhausted, I dream about the book, but none of my characters are there. It’s me, standing in a ballroom in the castle. The walls are draped with burgundy velvet, candelabras hang from the ceiling, and the feast laid out on the table is unlike anything I’ve seen in real life.
A man stands behind me. I can’t really see him, but I know he’s tall—and dangerous. “Look around,” he says. His voice is low and seductive. My nipples pinch and goose bumps crawl up my arms at the sound of it. “Pick out anything you want and it’s yours.”
I know exactly what he is, and that anything he offers will come at a price, yet I don’t move away from him the way I should. He’s indecently close now—the lapels of his jacket brushing against my bare back, his breath on my neck—but I remain perfectly still, daring him to stay right where he is...or move even closer.
When I wake, my tank is damp, stuck to my skin. I’m painfully turned-on, in a way I’d almost forgotten was possible. And I hate that, because the man in the dream was, quite obviously, Hayes.
I roll to my stomach and bury my face in my pillow. It’s just the stupid incident at Genevieve’s worming its way into my brain when it really shouldn’t. Yes, it was kind of hot, the way he tried to protect me from the dogs. Being shielded by someone a head taller and a foot wider held a primitive kind of appeal. But I’m not going to turn into yet another pathetic female fetishizing the Hayes Flynn experience. If nothing else, because I know how short-lived it would be.
8
I enter the weekend with dread worming its way through my stomach. Writing used to be my favorite thing in the world, and now it’s the bane of my existence, the thing I put off with crossword puzzles and gossip about celebrities I’ve never heard of in The Daily Mail. I now know more about Hamish and Delia from a show called Seduction Island than any adult really should.
There are two calls from Hayes about scheduling issues on Saturday morning, but given I’d expected far worse (House destroyed. Build new one. Also, need more tuxes), I feel like I’ve gotten off easy.
