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‘Why? Why did he decide you need help now?’
‘You know why,’ he says with a shrug, pulling away from me, putting distance between us.
‘Because you’re not sleeping. But he must know more. He must know there’s something at the root of it. Something that has hurt you. Something new.’
‘He’s not a fucking psychic, Holly. I sought therapy because Gabe begged me to. Because I’d do anything not to worry him. I’ve done enough of that in my time. Besides, it was no hardship to come to you, believe me.’ His eyes linger on my face for a moment before dropping to the necklace at my throat and then the swell of my cleavage.
A torrent of emotions swirls through me, frustration chief amongst them. ‘I don’t believe you,’ I say softly. ‘I think you were terrified of therapy. I think you still are. I think your idea of hell would be submitting to me for a full hour, letting me pull you apart, piece by piece.’
‘I don’t know. If you were naked...’
‘You make jokes to keep me at a distance.’
He doesn’t say anything.
‘You throw up barriers every opportunity you get. You clam up when I ask you too much about your past. You are sitting on feelings and emotions that are like ticking bombs inside you. You’re not violent, but you are hurting. I’d guess that something happened recently, something that hurt you. And it reopened all the wounds of your childhood. Things you thought you’d dealt with. Feelings you didn’t even know you still carried. Until you process that, you’re not going to sleep. You’re not going to be able to breathe properly until you find a way to comprehend what you’re feeling.’
‘This is bullshit,’ he snaps, but he puts a hand over mine, almost apologetically. ‘I know it’s your job and your reputation is impressive, but you’re wrong here, Holly.’
‘No, I’m not.’ There’s sadness in my tone, because I grieve for him and for myself. He will never have a meaningful relationship until he faces these demons. There will only ever be sex for us. Sex, Paris and a beautiful necklace.
‘Fine. What do I have to do, Doc? What’s your prescription?’
‘Like I told you the day we met, there’s no easy fix. No one-size-fits-all counselling approach. You have to face whatever you’re running from.’
His eyes give nothing away when they meet mine. ‘And what are you running from?’ he prompts, turning the tables on me with ease.
‘Me?’ My lips tug downwards as I frown thoughtfully. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean—’ his hand grazes my thigh beneath the table; the intimacy is very welcome ‘—your dickhead ex has been in jail a long time. Why haven’t you been with anyone else?’
My heart rolls over. ‘I’ve been busy. Raising Ivy. Running my practice. It’s not an easy juggle.’
‘And you’re proud of yourself,’ he prompts, hearing the lines I haven’t spoken.
‘Yes.’ My chin juts forward. ‘There have been times in the last few years when I could have surrendered to a feeling of hopelessness. Of grief and shame. There have been times when each day has seemed insurmountable and I’ve wanted to curl up into a ball and refuse to go outside, to refuse to parent, to refuse to be anyone to anything because it’s all so damned hard. There have been times when I have berated and blamed myself and been so angry with the choices I made. But none of this was my fault. I fell in love with the wrong man. That’s all. And I loved him even when most people would have been long gone. I loved him until that love threatened the only person I loved more. Ivy saved my life, you know.’
‘You saved your life,’ he says seriously. ‘She might have been the catalyst, but the hard work was all you.’
I half smile in acknowledgement. ‘Had it not been for her, I probably wouldn’t still be here.’
A muscle jerks in his cheek. He’s pushing his teeth together. ‘So you never met anyone else that made you want to get back out there?’
I feel a dangerous lure in this conversation. A tug towards swirling undercurrents of an ever-darkening ocean; a riptide that will suck us under before we realise it. Because neither of us is ready to discuss what we are, what we’re doing, and defining this so prematurely might be disastrous.
‘No.’ I shut the conversation down with a bright smile. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’
He looks at me for a long moment and then lifts his hand in silent agreement, signalling for the bill. It is brought swiftly but, before Noah can brandish his credit card, I’ve pulled mine from my bag.
‘You got the flight and the hotel, not to mention the necklace and the dress. Let me get dinner.’
His eyes show surprise; he covers it quickly, removing my credit card from the small silver tray and sliding it towards me. His own credit card replaces it—a type I haven’t seen before. It’s matt black with a gold stripe at the top and his name is written in white cursive letters. ‘I thought you wanted to be wined and dined.’ The statement is droll and my tummy flip-flops.
A waiter removes the card and we are alone once more.
‘I thought you didn’t do that,’ I volley back.
‘So did I.’
