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He compresses his lips. ‘To talk. To see what this is all about. I explained that on the phone.’
‘Right.’ I resist an impulse to respond sarcastically. ‘I’d still like to have some of your details on file. Do you mind?’
‘By all means.’ He drags his fingers through his hair and then casts a glance at his wristwatch. It’s not a fancy, expensive timepiece like you’d expect. It’s a smart watch. Is that what they’re called? You know, the ones that count your steps, forward your mail and lock your house.
I lift out my phone, opening the secure app I use to record confidential patient information. ‘Here you are.’ I hand it over to him, but he makes no move to take it.
‘You fill it out,’ he says with a shrug.
Rudeness has reached astronomical levels.
Now, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know I’m good at this. That’s not ego speaking; it’s the line of awards from the Guild of British Psychologists I’ve received; it’s the magazine articles; it’s the waiting list as long as your arm to get an appointment; it’s the fact I can charge what I want—though rarely do. Because what I love most of all is to help people, and seeing my success in the way my patients’ lives change—that’s why I do my job.
It’s why I agreed to see Noah for this ‘audition’, when I have far too much to do as it is. He sounded like someone who needed help. I want to help him.
Patients with trauma and severe trauma disorders, like PTSD, should be handled gently. Even the ones like Noah Moore, who seem as though they can handle anything, are only ever one distress away from bolting. From fleeing a therapy that is too hard to process.
Of course, I can only guess, at this stage, that he’s affected by a trauma—he’s not exactly giving me much to work with. Except for the ‘tells’, the small signs that indicate to someone like me that he’s using every cell in his body to push me away, right down to insisting that this isn’t a normal appointment, that he’s not a ‘patient’.
‘If you’d like,’ I say, with a soft nod and a smile that is my professional version of But we both know you’re being an asshole.
Out of nowhere, I picture Ivy and warmth spreads through me. I work long hours, and God, I miss her so much. I have a picture of her on my desk, back in my office, because it helps to tether me to the other part of my life—the love of my daughter and the need to make her safe.
She looks just like I did as a child—like me as an adult, really. Our hair is the same shade of blonde, so fair it’s almost white, though hers has been cut—at her request—into a bob whereas mine is long, halfway down my back, and I tend to wear it in a plait over one shoulder. We both have ice-blue eyes and our smiles are the same. She has her father’s nose, straight and lean, whereas mine slants up at the end in a way that my dad used to call a ‘ski jump’ when I was a kid.
‘Age?’ I prompt, finger hovering over the appropriate box on the electronic form.
‘Thirty-six.’
At least he’s answering. I had expected him to prevaricate.
‘Previous treatment history?’
His eyes narrow, and I know he’s fighting an urge to tell me that this isn’t ‘treatment’ either. ‘None.’
‘I see.’ I tap ‘nil’ on the screen, then lift my attention to him once more. And freeze. He’s watching me unapologetically, taking advantage of the fact I’m distracted by the form, and his eyes are roaming over me as though I’m a painting on display in a gallery.
My skin prickles with goosebumps.
Noah Moore is dangerous.
He has all the markers I have trained myself to avoid—he is rough and arrogant, ruthless and feral—and yet I stare at him for a moment, our eyes locked, and a surge of something forbidden rampages through my system. For the first time in five years, a slick of desire heats my blood, warming me from the inside out. I thought I’d never feel desire again after Aaron. I unmistakably feel it now.
‘Can I get you something to drink, folks?’ The waitress stands beside me and I flick my phone off automatically, discreetly hiding any information she might otherwise have seen.
‘Piccolo latte,’ I say.
‘Nothing,’ Noah says with a shake of his head. I frown. He suggested we meet for coffee and yet apparently has decided he won’t drink one.
‘Why are you here, Mr Moore?’
‘Is that you asking, or your form?’
My smile is tight. ‘Both. It will save us time if we cut to the chase.’
He makes a slow, drawled tsking sound. ‘But where’s the fun in that, Holly?’
He rolls his tongue around my name, making it sound like the sexiest word in the English language. ‘Do you find this fun, Noah?’ I return his challenge, inflecting his name with a hint of huskiness. I see it hit its mark. His eyes widen slightly, his pupils heavy and dark, and speculation colours his features.
