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“You don’t like cats.”
“But you do.”
My mouth falls open. “Nathan Mercer, you wouldn’t stoop so low as to get a kitten to make me move back in with you, would you?”
He raises an eyebrow and gives me that ‘come fuck me’ look again.
I whisper, “Diabolical.”
He chuckles and I stand, leading him into the consultation room by his hand. “You have seven minutes to fuck me.”
He slams me up against the wall, and his lips drop to my neck. “I only need five.”
* * *
I struggle with the grocery bags as I let myself into Nathan’s apartment.
I wanted to come back and make a special dinner for us. I’ve missed cooking for him. It’s 2:00 p.m., and after my R-rated lunch date in the consultation room, I’m buzzing.
Everything just feels so different this time.
Like it’s meant to be.
I drop the shopping bags in the kitchen and put my favorite play list on.
I open the fridge and see a bottle of our favorite wine. It’s too early for wine.
Why not?
I smile broadly as I take it out, you know what? Fuck it. After the shitty six months I’ve just had, I’m letting myself just be for a while. If I want a glass of wine at 2pm….then damn it, I’m having it.
I pour myself a glass and smile as I take a sip. I can hardly wipe the goofy smile from my face. I’m not getting a head of myself or anything but this feels promising.
I make my marinade, and I baste the beef and wrap it before I put it into the fridge to cook later. I peel the apples and put them on the stove top to breakdown. I’m making Nathan’s favorite apple pie for dessert. Next, I’ll make the shortcrust pasty. I forgot how wonderful it is to cook for someone. The music plays through the apartment, and I smile to myself as I dance and chop. My mind goes over our little lunchtime rendezvous.
I go over the last few days and how me not falling into Nathan’s arms in New York worked out well. I have my own apartment and my independence now. I don’t feel pressured or insecure. I feel like me—like how I’m supposed to feel.
And him asking his new therapist to send me the transcripts is a big deal. Nathan has always been so secretive.
Actually, I wonder if she sent them. I dry my hands on a tea towel and grab my phone to check my emails.
Amanda Beynon Therapy Transcripts.
I click on the first one and hit play. I stand my phone up against the window sill so I can listen as I continue with my pastry.
I hear a rustling, and I turn up the volume on my phone as I concentrate to hear them.
“Hello, Nathan,” a female voice say
s. “I’m Amanda.”
I listen intently as I spread the flour over the counter, they must be shaking hands.
“Hi. Nathan Mercer.”
“Please take a seat. Lay it back until you’re comfortable.”
I smile as I visualize Nathan lying on her office chair.
