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As I continue to pace her office, I stroll over to my therapist’s framed diplomas on the wall, leaning in and inspecting them closely. This isn’t the first time I’ve wondered if this lady is really legit. Her alma mater sounds respectable enough, but maybe I should run another background check on her. Her zen-like attitude about this is not sitting right with me.
I watch her suspiciously. “Normally, your advice is a bit more grounded in reality. All thisbetter mestuff. But today, well, I feel like you’re telling me to take advantage of the situation and do something weird and creepy with Harry’s soul.”
She chuckles softly. “What I’m telling you is to take a moment and breathe. A few weeks ago, you had a long list of reasons why you’d never give this man a chance. But last night, you got to know him on a deeper level and your soul recognized something in him. Something that made you agree to be his wife.”
“I wasdrunk!” I say incredulously.
“Alcohol lowered your inhibitions. It gave you the courage to do something your fear may have prevented you from doing in a sober state. But you should still examine your motivations. I’m not saying that marrying him on a whim was a great idea. I’m saying that you may have recognized his potential to be a great partner for you. I invite you to examine your original list of excuses with a fresh lens. Do your original excuses still feel true?”
“Of course they still feel true,” I say confidently, even as I wobble on the inside.
Heistoo young for me, isn’t he? Although…as we talked last night, I realized that Harry Westbrook is one of the most thoughtful and emotionally-balanced men I’ve ever met. And just for comparison’s sake, Luke’s behavior at the gala was crystal-clear proof that age isn’t necessarily an indication of maturity level.
Harry isn’t some wild playboy athlete letting the wind blow him any which way like I thought when we initially met. He’s a man who knows what he wants. And judging by what he’s said all along…he wants me.
No, Nadia. No. What about your job?
Right. That’s what it comes back to. My job.
Shit.
Regina’s voice barges into my jumbled thoughts. “I’m not asking you to make any decisions. I’m asking you to honestly examine what you feel. You don’t pay me to tell you what you want to hear. Right now, I’m telling you to slow down and be in the moment. So you don’t launch yourself into a full-blown panic attack.”
“Too late for that, doc,” I say, hustling over to the couch I never sat on to grab my purse.
That’s it. Nobody in my orbit is making sense. No one is giving me sound advice. I need to rely on myself. As always, I’m the only one I can trust.
“Okay, my time’s up,” I tell Regina.
She shrugs. “Do you feel better about your decisions ahead?”
I pause, looking at my therapist in the eyes. “You know what? I do,” I realize, not bothering to elaborate. Because I won’t let all her crazy talk get into my head. “Thank you. See you next week.”
I hustle out of her office, pulling on my coat and feeling far more certain than when I went in. I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m guessing my therapist wouldn’t approve but that’s irrelevant.
I’m going to track Harry down and demand an immediate annulment from him.
And that’s final.
22
HARRY
Icould use a nap. An orgasm would be nice, too.
Shit—with the way I feel, I need to hit the sack and pass out for a solid twelve to fifteen-hour stretch.
To say that tonight wasn’t my best game is the understatement of the football season. I played a crap game. I know it. My teammates know it. The coaching staff knows it.
In the last half alone, I dropped two crucial handoffs, messed up a running route, and then, when I finally got my hands on the ball with a clear view of the end zone, I ended up tripping on the goddamn turf and face-planting.
Fuck my life.
Being the back-up wide receiver means I don’t get that many snaps. When the offensive coordinator does decide to put me in, I need to make every snap count. Every single moment is a make or break one. Not only to help my team stay in the running for this season’s playoffs, but also to keep my damned professional football career intact. No pressure.
Let’s just say I didn’t do myself any favors tonight.
I grab my phone from my bag, dropping down on the bench in the corner as all fifty-three team members file into the locker room.
