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‘No.’ It’s over, though. He’s sullen and scathing once more.
‘You didn’t want anything to drink?’ I say when the waitress returns with mine.
‘Don’t think this place serves my kind of drink,’ he drawls, and I surmise he’s referring to alcohol.
‘Do you drink every day?’
‘Some days,’ he says with a lift of his broad shoulders. ‘Some nights.’
‘Is that why you asked to meet me?’ I prompt. ‘Do you think you have a drinking problem?’
His laugh is short and sharp. ‘If I say yes, can we end this charade and both go home?’
‘No one’s forcing you to be here. It’s just a “conversation”, remember?’
He looks at me with barely concealed impatience and I am curious as to the reason for that.
‘You work mainly with veterans,’ he continues, and the knowledge that he’s researched me does something strange to my gut.
It shouldn’t. Most people research a doctor like me before making an appointment. There are myriad specialties amongst psychologists, countless ways to practise what we do. For Noah Moore to be here, he must know that I’m his best shot at help.
He’s still researching me, though, in a way. Interviewing me before deciding if he wants to commit to a treatment protocol.
I think of the awards that line the walls of my office. They’re just shiny statues, but to me they mean so much more. I can remember all my patients. The hurts in their eyes, the traumas of their souls. Those awards are the acknowledgement that I have helped some of them.
‘I work with people who need me,’ I say, returning my gaze to Noah’s face. ‘People who need help.’
‘And you think I’m one of them?’ There’s fierce rejection in the very idea.
‘You called me.’
He presses his lips together. ‘This is a waste of fucking time.’
It takes more than a curse word to make me blush, though Noah Moore curses in a way that is uniquely interesting, drawing out the U.
I don’t react as I want to. To be fair to myself, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything for a guy and suddenly all of me is responding to all of him; my cells are reverberating on every level. ‘You’re free to leave.’
His anger is directed at me. Resentment too. It reminds me of the way he reacted minutes earlier when I told him no one was forcing him to be here and he simmered with that same angry rejection.
My mind ponders this as I sip my coffee. Our eyes are locked over the rim and my pulse ratchets up another notch. His eyes drop to my breasts and I feel an instantaneous zing of awareness. My nipples harden against the fabric of my bra and my stomach squeezes. I press my knees together under the table.
I’m used to this kind of attention. I’ve dealt with it all my life. I’m on the short side, slim with breasts that are out of proportion to my small frame. They seemed to grow almost overnight when I was only twelve.
It’s one of the reasons I wear dresses like this. Plain colour, dark, thick, demure. It falls to my knees and to my wrists, and the neckline is high. I’m not ashamed of my figure, but I don’t want the nickname I had just out of university to catch on. ‘The Sexy Shrink’ is hardly the business pedigree I seek.
‘I’m here now.’ He shrugs as though he doesn’t care, but I know otherwise. I know because it’s my job to read people and I’m good at it, and I know because I have a sixth sense that’s firing like crazy in my gut. ‘Might as well let you sell yourself to me. Go on. Work your magic.’
I fight the urge to tell him there is no such thing as magic when it comes to trauma therapy. It takes hard work, long hours and dedication from both patient and physician. I’m willing to put in the hard yards, but is he?
I come back to the suspicion I have that he feels compelled to be meeting with me. Obliged might be a better word. Like he ‘has’ to go through with this appointment, not because he ‘wants’ to heal.
Usually, I would follow a more traditional form of approach to tease the answers out, but Noah Moore is not going to respond to traditional therapeutic means. It’s why he insisted we meet here, in a coffee shop, rather than my office. I lace my fingers together, leaning forward slightly, elbows propped on the table. ‘I get the feeling you’re here against your will.’
‘Yeah,’ he grunts. ‘Didn’t you see the guy with the gun to my head when I walked in?’ He laughs it off.
‘You seem reluctant to accept my help,’ I say softly. ‘You keep stressing that this isn’t an appointment, that we’re just “talking”. You refused to come to my office, because you feel safer in a neutral setting like this café. And yet while I’ve said you may leave, you’re choosing to stay.’
There’s a wariness that steals over him at having been called out. Good. Unsettling him is going to be crucial here. ‘You think anyone could force me to do what I don’t want?’
