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He takes his time. When his gaze settles on my face, he says, “Welding. Off the coast. Hyperbaric welding, or underwater welding, as it’s more commonly known. I worked on ships and pipelines.”
I know this much. All the easily attainable information I’ve imprinted into my mind. I wait for him to continue, but I’m getting impatient. Why does a man with an IQ of 152 choose to work with his hands?
He releases a heavy breath. “Yes, I liked it,” he answers my unspoken question, and I allow a small smile to slip free.
I wait. Watch his tongue travel over his bottom lip. A grin hikes the corner of his mouth. “Look how tense you are,” he says. “The need to ask your little questions tightening every muscle in your body. Especially those thighs.” His gaze drops to my legs, and I slip behind my chair, removing my legs from his line of sight. “Go ahead. Ask.”
“Why welding?”
“You mean, why didn’t I go to college and pursue a career more befitting to my intelligence level?”
I lift my chin. “In fact, that’s exactly what I mean. Didn’t your parents encourage your education?” He’s refused to discuss his parents with me so far. I won’t stop pushing for the answers.
He rolls his shoulders. “My ‘parents’ encouraged me out as little as possible.”
I crane an eyebrow, anticipating more on the subject, but he looks away. “The ocean is quiet,” he says instead. “When you’re down there, not even your thoughts are loud. It all just fades into the background of this tranquil, marine scenery.”
I glance at the saltwater tank on impulse.
“I think you crave the same thing,” he says, drawing my attention to him.
I don’t confirm or deny his claim.
“Aren’t you going to ask, doctor?”
I shake my head slowly. “This isn’t about me. I’m not interested in what my thoughts are on the matter, only yours.”
“But aren’t you dying to know what I think you crave?”
Yes. The answer burns through me, scorching the back of my throat as I hold it there.
He hikes his pants up his thighs as he sits forward. “I bet you keep that fish tank in here because you crave that same moment of solitude.”
A light laugh escapes. “So you’re the doctor now?”
His expression opens, stealing my breath. “I’d love to ask you questions. I’d like that game a lot.”
If this is what will let his guard fall—even for a fraction of a second so I can capture it—then I’ll play. “All right, I accept.” I move into my chair and cross my legs at the ankle. “No, Grayson. I don’t crave solitude, because I take my alone time every day.” I raise my eyebrows challengingly.
“It’s not the same,” he counters. “Being lonely and solitude are two different things.”
I force my lungs to expand past the tightness. “Is that how you see me? Lonely?”
He shakes his head. “I’m the doctor today. I’m asking the questions. Are you lonely?”
I swipe my tongue over my teeth in an attempt to hide my reactive frown. “At times, yes. Everyone feels lonely every once in a while. That’s human nature.”
He becomes engrossed in the game, in his performance. “You think you handle it better then most, though. Don’t you? Why? Because you’re a psychologist?”
I bite back a laugh. “No, because I don’t like—” I stop myself short.
His head tilts. “You don’t like what? Relationships? Too complicated? Too intimate?”
“I don’t particularly like people,” I confess.
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “A psychologist that doesn’t like people. How do you manage that?”
I huff out a breath. “I’m interested in the study of people, not in what they can do or be in relation to me,” I clarify. “That’s the difference between the average self-indulgent person and one who’s self-aware. As a psyc
