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wisted the hem of her dress nervously and bounced her knee.
“You don’t need to fidget.” I put my hand over hers. “This is going to be low-key.”
“Really? Have you ever been before?”
She didn’t mention that we were going to see a psychotherapist—Brian and the driver were close enough to hear.
“No,” I admitted. “Have you?”
She sighed. “I went after my parents died, just for a few months.”
“Did it help?”
“It was intense.”
“We can handle intense.” But I was dreading the appointment, too. As a former marine who’d had several active tours of duty, I had a pretty extensive list of shit I never wanted to think about.
I hoped we wouldn’t have to go there.
I was doing this for Hannah. I’d promised Lauren, and even though I had mixed feelings about my conversation with her, a promise was a promise. As such, I couldn’t really whine about seeing a highly recommended, five-hundred-dollar-per-hour doctor.
Dr. Katherine McGovern was probably going to stick us on a modern, uncomfortable couch in a room filled with potted plants and ask us about our feelings. If I could survive a gunshot wound, a head injury, and a medically induced coma, I could probably deal with an hour of therapy.
I hoped.
Hannah laced her fingers through mine as I opened the car door. “I’m pretty sure I’m mad at you about this,” she said.
“Okay. But we’re still going.”
She groaned as I pulled her into the lobby, Brian following close behind. It felt weird having a security guard, but at the same time, it helped me relax—a little.
If anyone wanted Hannah, they would have to go through me and Brian first.
I greeted the receptionist, a young woman with a pierced nose and purple hair. “Wesley Eden and Hannah Taylor, for Dr. McGovern.”
She smiled warmly from behind the desk. “Dr. Kathy will be out in just a minute.”
“Dr. Kathy,” aka Katherine McGovern, MD, graduate of Yale School of Medicine, came out a few moments later. She was short, with corkscrew-curly hair, lavender-framed cat-eye glasses, a rumpled denim dress, and clogs. She looked more like a kindergarten teacher than a physician. She smiled, motioning for us to follow her.
Kathy ushered us into her office, and I peered around—instead of a modern couch with clean lines, there was a slightly dilapidated love seat and two overstuffed chairs. There were some plants, but the room was dominated by an overflow of books, piled on every available space.
“Would you like some water? Tea?” Kathy asked, so kindly that I worried she might ask to hug us.
“No, thank you.” Hannah smiled politely.
“Thanks for fitting us in this morning,” I said. “Dr. Fisher highly recommended you.”
“Lourdes and I went to medical school together,” Kathy said. She sat back in her chair. “Now, why don’t you two tell me why you’re here?”
“Wesley was injured, and he’s having a hard time with rehab. He doesn’t like taking it slow,” Hannah tattled.
I grimaced. “Hannah was kidnapped, and she had a panic attack two nights ago. We had to call the paramedics.”
Hannah gave me a dirty look, then immediately composed her features.
I did the same thing right back at her.
“How long have you two been a couple?” Kathy asked, unruffled.
