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But I was.
The more I thought of it, the more sense it made. I leaned against the counter and took a long drink of my beer. “I want that land, Gordon. Reconciling with my wife is my ticket into Harry’s good graces.”
He snorted. “And you think she’ll just go along with this?”
That was the rub. Jillian was as stubborn as they came, but I was a wealthy man now. “I’m sure I can find something to persuade her.”
The big clock over the mantel tick-tocked the seconds away while my friend stared at me like I had two heads. “You always did like playing with fire. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I hoped so too.
Inviting Jillian back into my life even for a few months was dangerous, but I needed a Hail Mary for that land, and if I wasn’t mistaken, I’d just been thrown one. Besides, it wasn’t like there was anything left between us. That had gotten stomped to death long ago.
I’d broker a business transaction with her, and in a few months, I’d be the divorced owner of the largest horse ranch in Southern California.
What could go wrong?
CHAPTER THREE
Jillian
My advisor had just raked me over the coals. Discouraged, I walked out into the bright sunlight and sagged against the bench outside the school. Students scurried to and from buildings, but I paid them no attention. After the last meeting, I thought for sure that he would approve this draft of my thesis, but the criticism was the same.
Too logical. Not enough heart.
Not enough heart? It was a scientific study! Just what kind of heart was I supposed to put into it?
My argument had met a cold gaze. If I couldn’t figure it out, then maybe I wasn’t ready to graduate after all.
Jackass.
Except that I didn’t think he was wrong. I wasn’t trying to finish my dissertation because I wanted to put new ideas in the world. I was finishing to finish, and that wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to wallow. Pulling out my phone, I hired an Uber. My shift at the therapy center started in twenty minutes, and my boss, Dr. Jacobson, already didn’t like me. No, he liked me well enough. According to the way he looked at me, he liked me just fine.
He just didn’t like that I’d rejected his advances or that I’d threatened to file a suit if he didn’t keep his eyes and hands to himself.
As the driver picked me up, I swallowed a couple of aspirin. A headache was forming behind my eyes. I had six hours of work ahead of me before I could go home and pop open a bottle of wine. I needed some serious decompression.
Not owning a car in the city wasn’t the worst thing in the world. The bus system went almost everywhere, but my schedule during the day was usually so back-to-back that I didn’t have time to take the bus. With the car-ride systems, I used the same three drivers, and they knew me well enough to be chatty, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk today. A short ride later, and I was at work.
The center was an eclectic mix of free group therapy, court-ordered therapy, and private sessions. It wasn’t the dream job, and it certainly didn’t encourage me to help people. The truth was, the center just did the bare minimum before throwing people back out again.
“Ms. Quinn,” Jacobson grunted when I entered his office for my assignment. He emphasized the Ms. as if to remind me that I wasn’t a doctor yet. I had a feeling that when I did get my doctorate, he still wouldn’t acknowledge it.
“Dr. Jacobson. How’s the day going?”
I immediately regretted the question as he looked up sharply and glared at me. “How do you think it’s going? I’m a doctor, not an office manager, and yet that’s all that I have time to do!”
That wasn’t true. Jacobson handled most of the private sessions. In fact, the only jobs he gave me were…
“Group therapy for widows in fifteen minutes,” he barked. “Make sure they don’t take more than their thirty-minute allotted time. We’ve got a crammed schedule this afternoon.”
I stifled a sigh. The only clients I was allowed to talk to were the widows. Months and months of widows. It was getting old.
Glancing at the program, I groaned as I headed back out to the small desk I shared with the other therapists. It wasn’t just any group of widows. These were the CP Morrissey widows. CP Morrissey was a high-end funeral home. Only the wealthy could afford them, and it was ridiculous that they even offered free group therapy. Most of these women could afford one-on-one sessions where they could really take the time to work through their grief.
